Lynn needs her sleep. Lynn loves her sleep. Lynn will joyously do without it, if the cause is good enough.

This has been a week of broken dreams. In every possible way. Thoughts that disturbed me enough to wake me, but didn’t stick around long enough to be understood. Nights of “why is it only one a.m.?” And nights of something better.

I have gotten very good, lately, at sleeping with the recorder in my hand. I’m not even worried, any longer, about dropping it. It is the extension of me. My safeguard and protector. My expression of hope—and, sometimes, of the realization of that hope. Last night was proof of why I do that, feel that, hope that.

For two overnights running, I’ve been jostled out of sleep by the rustle-of-write-it. I have been the landing strip for plot points and character enrichments that have circled my mental runway during the day, with no intention of touching down.

Another image….Lately, my fore-brain has been a tiger pit: Ideas drop into the dark and are swallowed whole, never to be heard from again. But at night, something else.

Last two nights, the packets of thought have arrived complete and entire from whatever mental/spiritual entity holds them in safekeeping for me throughout the day….like a writerly tooth fairy–or Santa Claus, maybe. I find them there waiting when I open my eyes, wrapped beautifully; gifts well-considered and generous from a loving head.

What sort of gifts? The entire logic of four chapters, arrayed in pristine clarity. Moments of poignant truth from the deepest part of the characters. Questions removed from the miasma of too-much, sorted for me and made simple for the mind. Moments of crafty misdirection. In all, nearly 200 ticks of the recorder counter—and believe me, that’s a lot of stuff. These are notes with barely an ummm or an uhhhhh on playback; the reflection of just how intact those ideas are.

I don’t know why it happens. I’m not sure that I care.

The bed is the arena of a writer’s struggles. The comfort cloud. The embrace that doesn’t come from elsewhere. The night can be the jilting lover, the disappointing friend. But last night’s night? It was good to me.

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