Creativity at three o’clock in the morning

One of the blessings of my life is that I usually sleep well at night—and frequently in the daytime too. But last night about three o’clock, I woke and then my busy mind kept me from falling back to sleep. I’ve been known to write great fiction at such times, but the story line either disappears or falls apart when I try to reconstruct it in the morning. Last night I wanted to remember everything.

For years I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a memoir, but I never could wrap my mind around it. The closest I came was my first cookbook, Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books. I divided my life into four cooking phases, although now I’d add a fifth. But ten years ago, the phases were childhood in Chicago with a British menu of meat and potatoes, Texas and two new foods—Mexican and Jewish, the casserole years when I raised four children as a single parent with little money to spare, and the years of the empty nest, when cooking really became prominent in my life as I experimented and entertained often. Today I’d add the years of the hot plate, because as most know, I cook on a hot plate or in a toaster oven these days. But that really was a book about food, not my life.

I’m not convinced my life is interesting enough to recount, though others seem to think it is, with raising those four children alone as the central adventure. And maybe it was interesting, and I just didn’t recognize it as I lived it day to day. There were of course gray days but there were many more filled with laughter and even silliness. Warm memories. 

I’m in a small, close-knit online writers’ group where the women mostly write memoir, and one thing I’ve noticed is that most memoirs deal with overcoming a serious problem—frequently addiction or the addiction of a child. We have one woman writing about losing her husband too early to a brain tumor, and another whose ex-husband stole her children. I look forward to those books, both of which are headed to print. But my life pales in comparison. I just haven’t had any big major problems.

So last night I hit on an idea: My Life with Dogs. For too long I lay awake, creating a list in order of the dogs who have meant something in my life. I came up with close to twenty—a pretty good record for eighty years. Oops, I just thought of one more and added him to the list, a dog I had less than a month but one I will never forget. And then I had to memorize the list, so it didn’t get away from me in the morning. That of course might well end up a book more about dogs than me, but it’s worth exploring.

My mind progressed to blog topics and came up with two—you’re reading one now, and the Lord willing you’ll read the second tomorrow night. There was a list of emails I should make today, and again I had to memorize it so that it didn’t get away from me. I am pleased to report that I have committed the list of dogs to a computer file, put the blog topics on my calendar, and sent the emails.

All of this deep thinking took until well after four, but I have a trick for those rare nights when sleep eludes me. I get up and go to the bathroom, whether I need to or not, come back and take two Tylenol. That somehow seems to break the cycle of sleeplessness. True enough, this morning it was 6:40 before I knew it and then I only knew it because Sophie wanted to go out. I got her safely back in the cottage, and next thing I knew it was 8:15—more than time to get up and write down all my three o’clock thoughts.

Excuse me—I think I’ll go take a nap.

Computer complications

The Christmas decorations are still up—we leave them until Epiphany—but otherwise I’m almost caught up from Christmas. Today, December 30, is one of those in-between days—not a holiday but a nothing day sandwiched between holidays. Hard to tell yourself to buckle down to work when the next holiday looms. But I have made a dent on the pile on my desk and am ready to get back to my various projects.

I had a tough lesson the other night about how much my daily life revolves around my computer. I tried to log on about ten o’clock at night but couldn’t get in. The screen showed the space for my code already filled in and flashed to the message that the code was incorrect, but it wouldn’t let me erase the incorrect code. It just kept entering strings of the number 2. Luckily, I had enough sense to know that it was late, I’d had a bit of wine, and things would look different in the morning.

But I sure had a sleepless night, worrying about the computer. At one point, I convinced myself I’d been hacked, and someone was making off with all my banking information even as I tossed and turned in bed. Then I thought it was malicious hacking—someone unknown who gets jollies from messing up people’s computers. What if it wiped out everything? I began to catalog what I’d lose—the final version of my current work-in-progress is with my editor for safe keeping (thank goodness!), a lot of my work is backed up in Dropbox, the blogs are available online. But all those family pictures from the last twenty years! And the manuscripts of my cookbooks—now I’d have to go to the actual book and retype to fix a dish. And a host of individual files I didn’t remember and wouldn’t miss until I wanted them.

Finally towards morning I slept fitfully and dreamt—of computers, of course.

Next morning, I avoided the computer. I didn’t want to know if it was going to do the same thing over again. But there was a glimmer of hope. Just before I turned it off, I got a message that said, “Something went wrong. Please try again later.” Well, morning was for sure later. I made tea, straightened the kitchen, talked to the dog—and finally took a deep breath and booted the computer. It started! I had to change my password—took a couple of tries—but finally I was in.

Still, it was wonky, still giving me strings of the number 2 and jumping all over when I tried to scroll down a list of files. In a moment of inspiration,  I abandoned the remote keyboard and opened the laptop to work on the real keyboard. Magic! Everything was fine. So now I’m working on the laptop, with the lid only partly open so that I can see the remote monitor—it’s like taking a blind typing test all those years ago in high school typing class (probably the most useful class I ever took anywhere). A new keyboard is scheduled to arrive today or tomorrow, so my computer complication was not the end of the world. But it was a close call.

I don’t necessarily want to become less dependent—I don’t think that’s possible—but I want a better insurance program. There are two experts in the family and several who are knowledgeable. One son-in-law  has a graduate degree in software engineering, and my oldest granddaughter works in the genius bar at an Apple Store. I guess I should ask for help. I don’t want any more sleepless nights.

An Aha! moment and no more boredom

This story begins with my shoulders. I know for sure I have one torn rotator cuff, torn so long ago the muscles have atrophied beyond repair. I suspect the other shoulder is in the same shape. Yes, my reach exceeds my grasp, and I can’t put dishes on the second shelf, etc. But mostly it doesn’t bother me. And then, sometimes it does. Last night was one of those nights. I woke about 2:30 with both shoulders painfully stiff—maybe I slept wrong. But I couldn’t go back to sleep. You know about those three o’clock in the morning thoughts—they can be devastating.  And for a while, they were.

But then I had an aha! moment and came up with an idea for a new book. No, I’m not going to share—I don’t trust a one of you not to usurp my idea and run with it. But I lay there creating notes for an introduction, a table of contents, a list of things to check on the web in the morning. In fact, I was so revved up about this I nearly got out of bed and headed for the computer—but that violates one of my principle rules for dealing with middle of the night wakefulness. So I stayed cozy and comfortable and plotted and planned—no, its not another mystery. I will give you a hint: it involves subjects dear to my heart, including Texas.

I did finally fall asleep again, and worried that I’d forget everything. I used to work for a man who would wake in the night, think of something, and call to leave it on his administrative assistant’s voicemail. I don’t have that option This morning I felt rushed when truly it was a day I had not much to do, except pick up my groceries at Central Market. To my joy, I remembered all the planning I’d done in the night. Internet exploration convinced me this this is good topic, because there’s nothing on it.

So today has been busy. I delivered an orchid to a friend for her birthday, picked up my groceries, explored on the internet a lot. Tonight, soup of the week—an accumulation from my freezer, which seems perfect for a chilly night. Then I’m going to investigate vacation housing for my clan, all sixteen of us, next Christmas. And then, the luxury of a good book.

So glad to be over my spell of boredom. It’s absolutely no fun to be bored or to feel sorry for yourself. Besides, today was rain free and a bit brighter though still not filled with sunshine.

Writer's Insomnia

Last night I woke at three-thirty and could not go back to sleep. My body was tired and comfortably snuggled in the covers, unlike some sleepless nights when I toss and turn like a washing machine. But my mind wouldn't turn off. Sometimes those three-o'clock-in-the-morning thoughts are pretty dark, and to distract myself from the dark side, I often think about what I'm writing. I can deal with the dark side better in the light of day. Last night, I roughed out a pretty good plot for a new novel--the first Blue Plate Mystery will debut in February--new settings, new characteers (no, I'm not abandoning Kelly O'Connell). But unexpectedly last night I found myself thinking about the second Blue Plate book. Mind you, I'm knee deep in writing the fourth Kelly O'Connell Mystery and that's where my mind might better have been, but there I was in Wheeler, Texas, sending Kate Chambers pellmell into a new advenutre. Actually I was pretty pleased with it, but I still could not turn my mind off.
All this has an upside and a downside--I emerged from that sleeplessness with a pretty good start on a plot for the next book I'll begin. The downside was by five-thirty I gave up all thought of sleep, knowing it wouldn't come. By six-thirty I was up and getting ready for the day--six-thirty? I wanted to shout, "What am I doing up so early." But I was to be out the door at nine, had to greet Jacob at 7:55 on his way to school and had to get my house running for the day. But I also knew that I had to write down the notes from my doze-induced plotting. And I did. It worked out pretty well on paper, as opposed to some schemes that I come up with during a long night.
The late Dorothy Johsnon, an award-winning author, wrote to me that if her muse was speaking to her, the writing flowed. But if the muse wasn't talking, she might as well give it up for the day. I'm a firm believer in that, and I always welcome the muse. But why does she speak at three-thirty in the morning?