The talons of night have crept in without me noticing. It is nights like these that I am startled to find my made for TV movie is done and I am still wide awake. Jamie has long since fallen asleep. The lights are turned down and the even breathing of three human beings and a dog drift methodically through my conscious mind. In and out. In and out.
I want to go to sleep. I know I should, because tomorrow will be another long day. It involves grocery shopping, a few scheduled visits, a makeshift workout involving a staircase and an out of shape 20-Something, and occupying two high strung children under the age of 7. I need to get to sleep.
My mind wanders however. Sophie begins making an odd grumbling sound in her sleep and I immediately think she is gagging on her own saliva. Cue jumping out of bed to her aid. Upon arrival she is fine. I lay back down.
The house is still and quiet. It disturbs me. I’ve been reading Stephen King. Enough said. But I’ll explain the last chapter I read before slamming the book shut and turning on a made for TV comedy to relinquish the evils that were beginning to take over my brain anyways. It involved poison, a too close for comfort mother/son duo and ol’ Ma being shoved into her bedroom as stiff as a board soaked in vomit and blood. It was unpleasant, but like always, Mr. King exposed it ever so cunningly. Hence why I continue to sully my once virgin mind with his works.
What about my work? What have I done recently worth talking about? Not much of anything to be truthful. I continue to get shot down from a certain online magazine who claims my work is “trying to be too edgy”.
Maybe I am? I will have to try to change that. Or maybe I should quit pitching altogether. You know, just stick with the gigs I’ve got.
I can tell myself this all I want in the comfort of my warm bed. It is safe here snuggled beside my husband and the dog. I don’t have to try to be anything. I don’t have to stake myself up against anyone here. I don’t have to achieve. I can all but throw away that gnawing awareness that I’ve possibly tapped out my career potential as a writer. In this cocoon of duvet and 800 thread count sheets I should not worry. But I do. And soon, I will be compelled to move. My mind will race with ideas as my fingers itch to touch keys and I know I am not getting sleep this night.
I slide out of bed and travel towards the bathroom where my robe hangs. I am wary nearing the dark kitchen as I’m positive a concealed madcap is going to surprise me with an ice-pick bonnet and the next thing I know I’ll see my body lying numb and naked as a pond of deep purple blood hypnotically dyes my carpet.
Once I get past the crippling fear of death by insane killer clown, I make myself a cup of tea. It is the herbal organic kind. It comes in a box that says so and a convenient throw-away caddy to dunk into my steaming water.
The computer is off. I debate watching a few episodes of OITNB but the writing wins out this time. Lately the writing has been winning often.
Many days- usually the ones when deadlines are crushing me or I have got punch-drunk on my own arrogance- I can sit at the computer for hours without one line of prose revealing itself. I can fuck Facebook several times over, tweet a bunch of shit that 3 out of my 400 ‘followers’ will actually read and I somehow even will my stats on WordPress to increase by usually at least two views. It is kind of amazing. Tonight however, I require none of that.
I flow. Although it means little, although it has no real sentiment, and perhaps it is trying to be too edgy, it is me. Since beginning this quest of documenting my last year as a 20-Something I’ve been searching for an angle to write this account. I’ve brooded for many moments- contemplating what this place should stand for.
And tonight I realize that I do not need an angle. I just need something true.