Birth of a Story

It comes in the still night hours, first as a whisper, then a nudge. Finally, a shout that leaves me with chills. But, then I always get them.

I jerk awake, grab at the blankets and pray my sleeping husband wouldn’t demand, this time, that I ignore what is happening. It isn’t the first time. I can only hope it won’t be the last.

With care, I slide from the bed and creep through the hall to my office. There was a time when my office was a corner of the kitchen, then a niche in the basement, which created a real problem, but now I’ve graduate to my own room.

Slipping into my chair, I gaze at my sleeping computer. Nothing for it. I have to turn on the machine. It might be two o’clock in the morning, but I can’t let it go. Never.

What is going on, you ask?

Why, a story! A full blown tale, played through my dreams, waking me in the middle of the night, demanding, no, screaming so loudly I must leave that warm bed, and the love of my life and seek the cold, dark office and a robotic machine, just to get the words on paper.

Fortunately, for me, I am married to someone who understands why I prowl around in the dark hours of the night to keep a solitary vigil before a computer screen, or drop out of a conversation to stare at nothing for long minutes before I begin a quick dash to find the always handy pencil and paper.

This is the life of an author. An idea, a precious bit of nothing, springs fully developed into your head and you can not sleep, or carry on a conversation until you have the idea, the character, the scene on paper. It doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does, for a few minutes, solitude becomes your best friend. How lucky I am that my ‘real’ best friend understands.