My Muse Has a Cruel Sense of Humor

3 a.m. – A cast of characters and entire blocks of dialogue drop into my head, just as I’m drifting off to sleep. I’ve been hovering around the edges of this idea for a week (and the general story idea forĀ years). Now, muse? Really!? Why?!?

I know. I shouldn’t argue with inspiration. Thank you, muse. I must display proper gratitude, lest the visits dry up completely.

I pick up the notebook on my bedside table and head to the living room so I won’t disturb my wife’s sleep. Character list begun, blocks of dialogue scrawled out in the handwriting of the living dead (because that is what I am at this moment), the barest of skeletons of a plot sketched out. Then, back to restless, shallow sleep.

8 a.m. – Drag myself to work, stumbling over the sleep deficit. All thoughts are of the new work. Everything else is done on auto-pilot. I haven’t looked at the notes since I put the pages down. Here’s hoping I don’t come home to a page full of, “Hey, what if Che Guevara and the Vlasic Pickle Stork tried to rob a Taco Bell?”

This may or may not be something that has happened before.

It might be time to go back to bed.