I’m so into procrastination when writing. I will find undersides of shelves to dust, languishing bananas that just MUST be made into banana bread, newspapers that demand reading, internet sites that distract effectively.

I’m working on a story, and it’s trapped in my head, rattling the doors to get out.  The imagery calls to me, I can see it play out in my mental movie house.  And yet….hours pass. My house is unusually clean.  I call old friends, I email new ones. I do the laundry and sort socks.

Then, between 12:30 and 2:00, my weary mind finally lets down the barriers and the words are allowed out to play. I can feel the music of them as they tumble out, calling to each other, sliding down the page lines, splashing in the ineffectual puddles of the forced words from before.

It’s magic.  I want to stay up and write and write and write, but the fatigue is too much, and after a burst of energy and light, I slump back into my bed, smiling but as yet unfulfilled, the story still continuing in my dreams.