I get great thoughts in the middle of the night.
Or, at least, they seem that way at the time, waking out of a half-remembered dream or musing on the edge of wakefulness. So I learned that I cannot depend upon myself to remember a bit of any of this inspiration, and have taken to keeping a notebook by my bed.
Except I take it out the next day and leave it someplace and then it’s not there when I need it and I wander downstairs and scrawl something on the back of a bill or a paper towel or on the calendar that hangs on the fridge.
Yesterday, I found an note that said “Seven deadly sins? Recertify?”
And on the calendar: “Flying but they have to trade their life for it.”
And in my bathroom, on the back of a pack of Q-tips scrawled with an eyebrow pencil (and no, I’m not making that up, it was all I had): “Faded. She can feel him disintegrating beneath her fingers.”
It occurred to me that if I should die in my sleep, whatever cop comes to investigate will be seriously confused by all of this. Unless, of course, he is or knows a writer. That’ll explain the insanity.
At least, I tell myself it does.