This is a writer who loves her sleep. Loves it.

I love the feeling of those yielding, marshmallow pillows under my head; the pillows held cocooned in arms, or held over my head to shut out the light and noise. Love the sleek, cool slipperiness of high thread-count sheets. The warming weight of the coverlet in the cool room. Hell, even the chill-forbidding touch of the coverlet when I nap on the couch on weekend afternoons. Love it all.

I love the lusciousness of sleep. I have only recently returned to the grace—mislaid during the stresses of the move and the new job—of sleeping through the night. Which makes it ever more surprising how little I mind when I wake at three a.m. with thoughts that demand the tape recorder.

Three ayem and I have an interesting relationship. Thoughts play effortlessly in my head as they rarely will at other hours. I pluck scenes whole-built from the darkness;  and characters who would have played keep-away in the daylight.

There is something forgiving at work in those most unforgiving hours. Perhaps we are closer to the eternal there, around the time when most people die; when the marginal among us are closest to madness. Perhaps we are just more willing to listen to the inner voices then.

Our bodies will pay for the sleeplessness in the daytime. We will creak through the workday. We will struggle to concentrate. The shuteye deprivation will cascade down into the evening, and pull us from our will to exercise, to cook dinner, to do the research that awaits us. But we won’t entirely mind: We have a tape recorder full of notes waiting for the conversations of pen and notebook. And in the end, that bed, that coverlet, those pillows will be waiting in the cool room to receive us.

Not such a bad thing, when you think about it.

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