I woke to the rat-a-tat-tat of rain pelting my roof, the sounds of my past blasted away at my dreams, gunfire snarled, and muzzle flashes danced behind the theater of my eyes.
“You don’t do that anymore,” I muttered dreamily. It’s not even 0130, and I am awake.
Does anyone else do this? Get up in the middle of the night and write down their thoughts, I wondered as I wandered to the coffee pot.
The Muse calls, demands, and you must answer.
I sip my coffee and tell Chunk to go lie down on the couch. I am up for the time being. There’s no denying The Muse. There’s a cost to being a writer. You must go when its time to write.
Or you risk missing the good stuff.
No one told me there would be sleepless nights, or that she’d call in the middle of the night. The Muse doesn’t care that you’d rather sleep. She calls only once, and if you don’t follow her to the computer, her voice slips away like vapor from a campfire coffee pot.
If you follow her voice, you don’t have to guide your fingers. It’s like your digits already know what to write. I swear it’s preternatural. Your fingers tap out the words she sings.
And then it’s over. This magnificent moment of you working. This sleep deprived hallucination fulfilling the musings of her lilting voice. The crescendo of her song slowly fading away into the tears of the morning rain.
It’s what I call the magic of a writer’s life.