That's right. It's 6:00 AM. No, I did not get up this early. I haven't gone to bed yet. I wish I could impress you with fabulous tales of my NaNoWriMo pursuits, how creativity struck right before bed and how I dragged myself to my (almost-iconic) purple couch and wrote passionately until the wee hours of the morning, unable to resist the siren call of the muses (I think I may be mixing mythology here...). But, alas. I cannot.
Here's the real story:
Sister and I begin watching LOST. We've been doing other things all day--Her: Shopping with Mom and pinning crafty things on Pintrest; Me: Not writing.
I begin doodling idly in Microsoft Paint. I've been reading a lot of Hyperbole and a Half and This Is Not That Blog lately, so I guess I think I can do it, too. I cannot. But that does not keep me from doing it anyway. This is probably why and how my novel will get written.
Sister and I finish the last episode of Season Five of LOST. Now, anyone who owns television series (serieses?) on DVD knows that it is almost physically impossible to finish a season finale and NOT put in the next season's premiere when IT IS SITTING RIGHT THERE (RIGHT!THERE!) on your shelf. Especially when the finale was a cliff-hanger. Which, what show doesn't end the season with a cliff-hanger these days? The View? Probably. Anyway, I'm off track.
So even though it's late, we'll watch just one more episode, to make sure that people had really died/hadn't really died and all of that. We figure, "Tomorrow's Saturday! We never leave the house anyway. It's not like we work or anything!" Or at least I figure that. I have no idea what Sister is thinking and I shouldn't put words in her brain. I actually don't know how I'd go about doing that, but it sounds tricky and kind of messy. But that's beside the point. The point is, I fail to remember that the Season Six premiere is a two-episode-time-block-mega-episode-extravaganza, so it's over an hour and a half before we find out who's dead, who's alive, and that we really know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AT ALL ABOUT THIS STINKING ISLAND (well, Sister is maybe confused... I've seen them all, so I'm not that confused... only a little bit confused).
We retire to our separate rooms--Sister to her peaceful slumber and me to my fitful tossing and turning (SPOILER ALERT! Oh wait, I already told you how this ends... Never mind, move along). I crawl into bed and do as I usually do: mess around on my iPhone and then read a chapter or two of my latest book. Right now, it's Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants #2, which I've already read, but I need to re-read because I haven't read #4 (I don't think). Plus, it's been awhile and I really want to read the newest one: Sisterhood Everlasting. Because Sister said it made her cry and she never cries. At books, at least. It's not like her heart is made of stone or she's Cameron Diaz from The Holiday or something. But if a book made her cry, it's probably worth reading.
I can only get about ten pages before I want to noogie each character (this is not a reflection of Ann Brashares' work, but my own inability to deal with TEENAGERS right now). I turn out the light.
This is a pretty late hour for me most of the time, but recently, it's become the kind of late that 12:30 used to be. It's not obscenely late or anything. But it's definitely time to be asleep. So I close my eyes, turn on my left side, and snuggle close to
3:00 AM -ish
I toss and turn for a while. Then I lay with my eyes open, doing a pretty routine mental exercise that's half-fantasizing and half-book-plotting. Tonight, I'm wondering what it would be like if I (and by "I," I could mean either my actual self or a character like me) fostered-to-adopt a safe-haven baby. Please don't ask me where I come up with this stuff; heaven only knows and probably not even that.
I lay there, mentally redecorating Sister's library (the room we often refer to as Godson's room) as if I owned the place, putting the crib against one wall and the changing station with the baskets of cute-but-gender-neutral cloth diapers on the other wall, trying to decide if I want an old fashioned rocker (nostalgic, but tough on the carpet) or a glider/rocker (more functional, but takes up a lot of space), and imagining bringing this stranger-baby into my home forever and ever.
Since sleep has detoured on the way to my house tonight, curiosity gets the better of me and I grab my phone. To start researching what safe-haven laws say about adoption. Yeah, really... I know. Just... I know.
I spend an inordinate amount of time and brain power dissecting the psychology of what would make a mother desert her child like that and the likelihood of her coming back to reclaim custody. Because I don't have a job, I don't own my own home (or even my own car!), and I'm single. So, yes, the trials and joys of adoption are EXACTLY what I need to be fretting over in the middle of the night. But usually these kind of mental rabbit trails are a good way to get my mind to disengage from the day and drift off to sleep. Unless I get into the storyline. Then all bets are off.
I get up and go to the bathroom, hoping it's my bladder keeping me up.
I crawl back in bed, blind in the dark because of the bathroom light. I re-tuck my covers, which have become ridiculously twisted from the turning and the tossing and the God-knows-what-else-ing. I hear the sticky notes that comprise my plot map becoming unstuck from the back on my bedroom door, one by one. I make a mental note not to use that surface anymore.
I scavenge a string cheese from the kitchen. I'm feeling kind of shaky, almost hypoglycemic-ly.
I am not actually hypoglycemic.
I think that maybe I should be using this insomnia episode for something productive. Like writing. Since I battled with my characters all evening and am not-quite-sure-but-almost-there-just-wait-one-more-minute-I-think-I've-got-it-oh-wait-no about my plot and my killer, I don't really feel up to it. I beg the gods of sleep to stop torturing me. I will tell them anything they want to know, just let me sleep.
I play another round of Josephine on my Card Shark app.
I begin composing this post in my head.
I force myself to close my eyes and deep breathe, with the promise/threat that if I'm still awake at 5:30, I'll get up and get something accomplished. BUT! Only if I keep my eyes closed and really concentrate on sleeping.
I don't want to blog this early. Desperate to use my last three minutes wisely, I turn on my lullaby.
I realize OH HEY NO! It's not insomnia hypoglycemia. It's not my bladder or my eyelids or my left knee cap or my hypothalamus (although it IS kind of warm in my bedroom). It's not even an imagination/will-power issue that can be fixed by soothing music.
It's the pint of Starbucks Java Chip Frappuccino Ice Cream I ate while watching television.
You know, the ice cream made with REAL COFFEE?!
The kind of coffee with REAL CAFFEINE?!
Yeah. That one.
Resigned, I get up and creep down the hallway to the living room, where my computer is plugged in. I grab my insulated polka-dot cup, because I am not worried about my bladder anymore. I decide NOT to fill it with ice, but just the coldest water my kitchen tap can give me, so as not to wake Sister.
I manage to gather cup, laptop, and power cord without making a sound.
I bash my giant rear end into an old glass of water on the side table, which crashes noisily to the floor. Noisily and wetly. Niiiiiiice.
I stand cringing and wet-footed in the dark of the living room, praying Sister does not wake up and think she is being burgled. Again.
I set the laptop on a flat surface (I almost use the back of the couch, quickly see this turning into an episode of the Three Stooges, and think better of this plan). I flip on the light, grab a few dirty towels, and whisper swear words to no one but myself as I clean up another mess caused by my inability to locate and manage all the parts of my GIANT BODY at the same time.
I settle into my bedroom as quietly as possible and open my computer. I find the drawing I did earlier:
Who knew it would be a prophetic self portrait?