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? 

LIsten to your body--or your muse?

A lot of writers will tell you the way to write a novel is simply to plant your butt in the chair and write. I remember once being awed to meet J. A. Jance, one of my personal heroines at the time, and when I said I was trying to write mysteries, she said dismissively, "We all know how you do that. You plant your bottom in the chair and write." At the time I was offended by her abrupt, uncaring manner because we didn't all know--I could sit in a chair all day and have no idea what I was doing. I thought if I had her success and met a wannabe, I'd be more encouraging, probe a little about interests, etc. I later heard however that she was in the midst of a family crisis far away--and she was in my city because of a commitment to speak that evening. She carried the evening off with panache and you'd have never known that someone she cared about was dying.
But I kept that  line in my mind. It's not an unusual or particularly original piece of advice. Some writers set daily goals--hours at the computer, number of pages or scenes or words written. I can't do that because my schedule varies wildly. But so, I find, does my muse. When do you keep your butt in the chair and when do you simply walk away?
This morning, my house was a zoo. Jacob and I went out early to his house to feed Fishy, water the plants, look for his favorite sleeping shirt (he couldn't find it) and get his bike-riding helmet (it was in the locked garage). When we came home, Socorro was cleaning, Greg was mowing, and the serviceman from I&E was working on the sprinkler system. Jacob said, "There are a lot of people at your house, Juju," and I was tempted to tell him it takes a village to keep my house running. His grandfather came to pick him up, amid much excitement on Jacob's part--a trip to Legoland, a water park adventure, and a movie. Jacob told me they were taking him to see a movie with lots of violence, and I said I doubted his other grandmother would tolerate that. "Just kidding," he said. "We're going to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid."
Greg finished the yard, Socorro finished the house, and everyone was gone. I fixed lunch and settled down to write. Some really constructive time. I did write 900 words, a scene that I had planned out. I knew where it was going from there, but  I'm not sure if it was my body or my brain or both that didn't want to work. Each word was painful, and I quit. Be it physical or mental, the muse wasn't there. Took a good two-hour nap, fixed a light summer supper--cold salmon platter with avocado, deviled eggs, cherry tomatoes, cucumber--for a friend and had a lazy evening visiting. She's someone who also lives alone, is as devoted to her cats as I am to my dogs.  We have great conversations, and I feel I'm lucky to have found another new but good friend in recent years.
The news on the dog front is good. Scooby has suddenly turned a corner. Greg said he ran to him this morning, and at noon he went up the steps himself--his back legs don't quite make it, and he needs help. I have given up the towel/sling because it seems to hinder more than it helps. Yes, he still falls but not nearly as often--and he's not as nervous and anxious about it. I am encouraged for the first time in almost two weeks.
Life is good, and I remind myself daily to be grateful.

Waking and Sleeping

In the last four days I've written about 8,000 words on my novel. I have, as they say, gotten into it. This morning, I woke up at 2:30 from a sound sleep but could not get back to sleep. I was living out scenes from the novel in my head, working out the future plot, even figured out how the protagonist saves herself  from the villain. For too long I kept abandoning this novel, then coming back to it. I think because the world of it didn't seem real. Now it does, and the characters do--this late in the manuscript (54,000 words, thank you very much), they're taking on personality and depth. When I do that first rewrite I'll be more confident about who they are. I want to toss the world aside and write, write, write, but of course I can't do that, particularly not this week. My horoscope this morning said the world would keep me very busy in the beginning of the week and then leave me hanging. My calendar indicates just the opposite. Anyway, having my muse talk to me is great, but I'd like some sleep, please. The late Dorothy Johnson (A Man Called Horse, The Hanging Tree, etc.) used to say if her muse wasn't talking to her she might as well go scrub windows. One day she wrote that she'd just had an awful shock: she was working on a novel about NYC during WWII, called The Unbombed, because New Yorkers always lived in fear of bombings. She wrote she'd had a terrible disappointment: her muse had just told her that the man she thought was going to be the hero was going to be killed in the war. I know the feeling--the villain in my current work-in-progress has changed three times, but I think now I finally know who it is.
I am still exporing the possibility of self-publishing this novel, since the others haven't sold. It's a whole new world out there, and self-publishing has lost its stigma, may have some distinct advantages.
Lovely dinner tonight with old friends, couples who knew each other from way back but don't visit often. Nice to bring people together. The two men were both Air Force pilots so there was a lot of flying talk, and one is a docent at the Carter where Kathie plans to volunteer, so they all had a lot to talk about. My meatballs were good--sitting overnight really did improve them, softened what I thought was too strong a tomato paste taste--and the mashed potatoes with spinach and gruyere were wonderful. For an appetizer, I served store-bought hummus--I've found a brand I really like, Cedar's Original, and I plopped a couple of defrosted cubes of pesto down in the middle. Great combination. Kathie brought chocolate cake for dessert, so it was a festive and good meal.
Nice day. Much better than yesterday. And I did write 2,000 words. Moving on.