by Valerie Ipson
Last night I stayed up way too early rewriting a chapter of my novel and, you guessed it, once I went to bed the old cogs of the writing brain would not stop turning. I was afraid to look at the clock to see exactly how long it took me to finally fall asleep, I just know there were a total of three times I pulled out paper and pen in the dark to scribble something I was sure I'd forget by morning.
Despite my lack of sleep, morning still came, and it started with a six followed by other numbers which is not a big deal to many of you, but in the summer it is to me and especially after last night.
I stirred awake a bit while my husband was getting ready for work and the dream I was in the middle of still lingered. I thought, Now instead of having her say that I could have her act it out and the other person would know what she's talking about.
Then it hit me.
I'm editing the dream I just woke from.
Then I shook my mental fist at the looming lightbulb that's always above my head--the idea I have that I can write a novel--Nooooooo! I say. Let me rest in peace.
But there was certainly no more rest, or peace either, and with the lure of ibuprofen as my guide, I got up. I stumbled down the stairs with my bleary eyes and jammies, the bedside clipboard and pen in hand. My daughter was right there on her way out the door to work, and she said, "Do you always sleep with a clipboard?"
Last night I did," I replied.
Now I'm going to read my chapter rewrite and all I'm saying is it better knock my slippers off or clipboards are going to roll.