The Bedside Table

When I was a kid, I fell asleep on a dime. The instant the lights were out - so was I. As I got older, I slept less and less. It wasn't until I was in college and I forgot to sleep for three days (and started hallucinating) that I realized I might have become an insomniac somewhere along the way.

I don't suffer from rampant insomnia, just very, very minor. I have a friend who would stay up for a week or more at a time and then crash - and there was nothing he could do about it.

Stress obviously inflames my insomnia. But if I'm not quite tired when I lay down, I have the worst habit.

With my eyes closed, my body relaxed, waiting to drift into sleep under the warm covers, I start to create.

The perfect scene.

The perfect line.

The next bit of the story I'd been stalled on while sitting at my computer all day.

And who wants to get up then? When you're already snuggled into bed and waiting for sleep? And what are the chances you will exactly remember that phrase or scene or word, just as you had it, in the moments before slumber? I'll give you a hint. It starts with "Z" and ends with "ero". For me, anyway. I am most perfectly, unquestionably creative when the last thing I want to do is get up and write it down.

So on my bedside table, I left an empty notebook and a pen. And my booklight...

Just in case.

Last night Andy fell asleep within milliseconds of laying down. And SNORED (sorry, hon, but it's true!) I couldn't fall asleep. But what I could do, was imagine.

Imagine I did!

I couldn't take it anymore, I wasn't sleeping. But then it hit me - I was prepared. I snapped on my bedside light, opened up the notebook and exploded all my thoughts onto the paper, effectively writing the first chapter of a novel I've been hemming and hawing over for the past... three? years.

Turn your weaknesses into strengths, that's what I say :)

Mental Disorganization... or Just Mental

My mind stays busily, sometimes painfully active. I think about everything, and I mean everything, constantly. When I lay down to sleep, my thought process goes something similar to this:

"Okay, time for some sleep. Let's get comfy. Yeah, okay, that's good. Close my eyes and..." three seconds later, "the first of the month is in a couple of days, I'd better remember to give the dog his heart worm medicine. I should remind Andy to get a haircut tomorrow, it's getting long. Did I put my keys in the key turtle? Do I know where they are? Retrace my steps... no, they're on my desk, under the credit card bill. Can't forget that. Do we have bread? I think Andy threw it away. Should I check? No, I'm in bed, forget about it. Are my car doors locked? Did I roll up the windows? Is it raining? I have to remember to do some laundry tomorrow. I wonder if Andy knows where Ajax's red ball went. What day is tomorrow? Do I work? Is my alarm set? I think I remember setting it." and on and on until I literally pass out from exhaustion.

Some nights I can control it, by picturing a blank white nothingness and repeating "white" over and over to myself.

Rarely, very rarely, I can count sheep. But then I start thinking, are they walking, or jumping over a fence? Do I have to visualize them jumping? Are they fluffy sheep or are they recently sheared? White sheep? Black sheep? How many should walk/jump? Do they trot up and hop over the fence? Do they walk around it? Is it just a small, stand-alone section of fence? And that goes on until even the sheep are glaring at me in annoyance.

There are only a few things I know of that can "shut off" my brain. One of them is reading - when I'm immersed in a world outside myself that is interesting, I have laser focus. The other is video games because I have some horribly competitive monster in me that thrills at earning achievements and learning or mastering. Funny enough - time management/strategy/city-builders are my favorite type of game. Younger, I played Tetris into the ground and older, Lumines.

If things are particularly stressful and my brain is clocking in overtime, I might go on "video game benders" that waste hours and days of my life, because I just need a break. From myself? I guess so.

When I'm depressed, my ability to focus on a single task or project recedes into the land of make-believe.

Stressed and depressed, you can imagine I'm pretty useless.

On my desktop right now, I have 7 separate stories in progress, and four more in my head, unstarted. When I start to work on one, I seem to get a new idea. (It's getting really crowded in there. Oh, and I just remembered I have some stuff started on Google Docs, too...) It's gotten so bad, I'm afraid to work on anything, because I'm afraid I'm failing by not finishing one. People tell me, "Just sit down and do it. Work on one thing, and finish it." Oh, how I wish I could. Add in the fact that every job now includes, "must be able to multi-task in a fast-paced environment" (because I'm trying to improve my situation in life) and my business degree (teaching me that focusing on one thing at a time is a terrible way to do business) and I am a recipe for Failed Disaster.

I'd like to put my head in my arms and go to sleep, hope that my brain can rewire itself in the night and make things work, but I can't even get to sleep properly. Then I have outlandish dreams that I'd like to share and multiple people - never just one! - say, "That would make a good story!" and before I can run away - "You should write it!"

Yes, yes I should.

Let me add it to my list.

I'm sorry I'm ranty today, I'm tired. Andy's sick and I know I'm catching it. So much to write - doesn't my body know I don't have time to be sick? There's unfinished writing to be done, a career to mold and... wait, no, I'm not doing so hot there either :(

September sales were dismal - 6. All but one at the very beginning of the month. +1 Depression, -1 Medrick :P

I know, I know I need to just write and get them down and get them out there. Can someone please get the memo to my brain, to just calm down and focus? I'd appreciate it. Thanks!

Love you guys, seriously.

Keeper

I hear it's common for writers (and intellectuals) to want to spend time alone. I also hear we are insomniacs. I find this to be true - in the dark, quiet hours of the night, when the rest of the world has finally shut the **** up, I can think and concentrate without ridiculous interruptions.

I love my fiance - very much so! But I do not want to spend every waking moment with him. I am just this way. I love my dog, and my favorite books, but I do not want to play frisbee all day or re-read the same book over and over. I want new things, and alone time.

My fiance is part of Rausamea. To put it very bluntly - it is a bunch of people that wrap PCP pipe in thick foam and then beat the daylights out of each other in mock medieval battles. They have realms, crests, knightings, huge battles, realms fight other realms... it's very involved. (But essentially, daylights + beating.)

Of course I worry about him when he does these things. He's accident and large-surgery prone. Someone could hit him in the head, or he could get thrown/trampled in a charge (YES, that is a real danger). But I know he enjoys it. I think it helps him get that natural man-ness out, the need to beat up on something. It's also really good exercise for him, he sometimes wears a REAL SHIRT of CHAINMAIL, plus carrying the shield, swinging the sword...

But I really like when he goes, because I have the house all to myself. He won't walk around randomly singing Club Villain at the top of his lungs. (Or WORSE, Orphan Tears.) I have some nice relaxation time to myself, and better - time to write.

He went to a spur-of-the-moment fight on Thursday (he normally fights Wednesdays). He was kind about it - asking me if it was alright.

When he came home, he said he had a story to tell me, and it went something like this:

"The guy I rode with said, 'Man, it's getting late. I really better get home to my wife.' Then another guy said, 'Yeah, my wife is gonna kill me for being out so late.' A third man chimed in and said, 'My girlfriend gets pretty angry when I'm out too late. (sigh) I better go, too.'"

I (my fiance) looked at the other three men and said, "When I left the house, my fiancee said, 'Bye! Have a good time!' She likes her alone time and is glad when I'm out of the house."

Almost simultaneously, the three other guys turned extremely serious and in unison said, "KEEP HER."

This story (especially because it is a hobojillion percent true) makes me laugh, and laugh.

And laugh.

Curing the What Ifs...? (or: How I Learned My Insomnia Could End), Part 2

Last time I talked a little bit about how I see my day-to-day routine.  Little things make me go, "What if...".  I realized after I wrote it that I may... perhaps... seem a little paranoid.  I want to assure you, I'm not paranoid, I'm just curious about alternate possibilities.

Here's a fun example.  Yesterday I opened at work.  We prepare our onions, cut by hand, every morning.  They are fresh and yummy (and a big pain in the butt to do).  I was peeling the paper skin off when a cloud of white dust poofed out of the onion in my hand, startling me.

Here was my thought process:
What was that?  What if that was anthrax?  No, that's silly, there's no anthrax in these onions.  Wait, are these foreign onions?  Are onions in season in the States right now?  What if it's a foreign onion?  What if it carries the seeds of some strange, buried prion or something?  Holy crap, what if that turns me into a zombie?  Do I feel like a zombie?  I wonder how many people I'd infect before being taken down.

From there, it was an experiment in how I think a zombie outbreak would look, with the epicenter being my sleepy little Ohio town.

I think you get the point by now... basically, I feel like I'm always considering what could happen, and in thinking about it, I entertain myself.  Greatly.

Until middle school, I was always able to fall asleep on a dime.  I could close my eyes and I was gone.  If it was bedtime, I was asleep. I didn't argue or ask questions, I simply laid down and that's all she wrote!  As for what I wrote - whenever the mood struck me, on any topic and for any length of time until I was bored/done with it.

In middle school, I made the worst decision of my young life.  I joined Power of the Pen.  It was a competitive writing group (we actually went to competitions!).  You'd be given about two hours to write, and everyone would be given the same topic.  Some competitions, you'd do this two or even three times (yes, six hours of writing by hand).  We also met weekly to talk about writing, how to improve, et cetera.

My writing was deemed not entirely acceptable in this setting.  I am just not good at being given a topic and told to write on it - especially on a time limit.  I made the team... barely.  I was second alternate.  Basically if someone got sick, I still wouldn't write.  If two people got sick (inconceivable!) I might have a chance to get into the competition.  However, I was assured, this had never happened in all the history of PotP.  (Be ready to hear that more, 'in all the history of PotP')

So, of course, it happened with our last writing competition.  I had gone all year glumly cheering my team on from the sidelines.  I didn't want to cheer, I wanted to write!  It was why I had joined in the first place.  I smiled as best as I could, but my heart was heavy.  When I was told that for the first time ever, the second alternate would be permitted to join the competition, I literally bounded about, an unbridled source of joy and energy.  I thought my heart would explode, because it was far too small to contain my happiness.

I wrote with all my fervor that day.  I remember my topic, "Write a story based around the idea 'Just wait 'til your father gets home!'"  I wrote a story about a kid finding a little alien and causing a lot of mayhem with it.  The boy took credit for the alien's misdeeds.  The mom got angry and made the exclamation.  It was unpolished, unfinished, maybe a little ugly, but I wrote with everything I had.

At the grading ceremony, our team was all set up to win the whole competition.  Story after story was rewarded with stellar marks.  Then, my story, graded last.  How apropos.  I received the worst marks in history, for our club.  We lost the competition.  We didn't go home with any awards.  I was devasted; my team was furious.  My friends would not longer speak to me.  I cried like any heartbroken child would.

The next week at school, my English teacher (Vice President of PotP) approached me about my scores.  "Your writing is terrible," she informed me.  "You received the worst marks, ever, in the history of our club.  I don't even want to look at you right now.  You will never be a writer.  Never.  You should give it up.  Do something you're actually good at, like math.  Spare yourself the embarrassment, and don't write anymore."  Then she walked away, red tresses flowing behind her in the cryptic winds of the hallway.

My heart was in my shoes.  It was beneath my shoes.  It was dripping in rivulets down through the dirt to burn up in the core of the earth, never to be recovered.  I cried, right there and quietly through the rest of the day.  I swore off writing.  I packed up all the stories and ideas I was working on, clenched my jaw and gave up.

Less than a week later, the insomnia started.