It’s dangerous for me to write at night. I don’t follow a set routine and am not a disciplined writer, but I do my best to plop myself in front of the computer first thing in the morning. It’s a wonderful time to write, as long as I do nothing but: Shuffle to the back door to let the dogs out, make my tea or reheat yesterday’s coffee, ignore my phone and hope it’s dead, let the dogs in, feed them, grab my cigarettes and thump, park my butt.
That’s right, no shower, no brushing of hair or teeth, no food. If all goes well, I’m still half-asleep, still floating along in a dream-daze, alpha waves to the fore. In that state, I quickly fall into my manuscript, my world and the people in it come alive for me because I’m not fully steeped in this supposedly Real World. If I’m lucky, it’s hours before something – usually a dog desperate to pee – jolts me loose and demands I wake up.
At night, a different kind of drifting takes place. Too tired to play or visit my characters, but wanting some release, I’m easy prey. The sludge inside stirs and the voices of the Past mutter, the pitch rising from a moan to a wailing scream. I muffle them by reading other blogs, playing mindless games on Face book (yes, I know it’s one word, but I don’t want to inadvertently link it in the text of my blog), answering emails, and failing at it all as they wriggle out from under whichever bandage I’ve chosen. I add more adhesive, another bandage, find a joke page to read, concentrate on a word puzzle…nope, sorry, bitch, they’ll have their say and you get to reveal it.
So, to you few who have peeked in here, I’m asking, “Should I rip the bandage off?” Do I write of the Dark, the Past, and, yes, the Present?
Let’s face it, we all get a thrill seeing and reading about the terrible stuff other people live through. Roses and sunshine and romance, joy, laughter, love, yeah, yeah, all well and good, but most of the time, we humans want the meat, the terror, the violence – why do you think we slow down and stare at the scene of an accident? If we’re honest with ourselves, it isn’t for safety’s sake – hell, that slowing traffic is a menace – no, we slow down hoping to see blood, guts, a body, a fight.
Well, shall I rip the bandage off and bleed it all out? It might be a relief, at least for me. You might have nightmares, but, hey, I warned ya. No promises; I know I’m a coward and may not have the courage to bleed all over these pages. I might ignore this blog and write something funny or fictional tomorrow. Or I might wait until the dead of night and let the darker voices out of the Pit to crawl around and expose you to my slime. Yep, it’s really dangerous for me to write at night.