There’s more to this story.
Or that’s what I keep telling myself, struggling to stay awake and write the next sentence then the next sentence, and the one after that.
Long after I should have gone to bed.
Does that sound like your life?
Of course, it doesn’t. The rest of the world is sane, goes to work, come home, have dinner, watch a little television or play with the children, or maybe not, then go to bed.
None of this writing business, trying to finish the page, the scene, the chapter while the ideas are fresh in your mind.
Only your mind isn’t fresh, it’s been a long day, an argument with the significant other, a bigger argument with the cat, there’s the washing, the cooking, the cleaning…
When do I get five minutes for myself?
At the dead of night when everyone else has gone to bed, getting their eight hours sleep.
In the dark with only the screen to light the keyboard, I’m trying to find the way around the keyboard and turn out what has to be the next international best selling thriller.
The dog next door barks, it means the cat got out and is terrorizing it.
A door slams, it’s old Joe getting home late from the pub, probably drunk again.
Yep, right on target, the vitriol of a bitter woman, and I have to say, I don’t blame her.
Then I hear it, that voice from the deep, “Poppy.”
The youngest of the grandchildren, the very devil to get to sleep.
Writing for the night is over, time to read other people’s stories.