There’s a place in my head, right between reading a book and falling asleep, where my creative muse comes out to play, to romp about, to intermingle thoughts of the day with the story I’m reading and stories that want to come out.
Often these stories are fascinating – little novellas about people I know, the devil, camping, house-hunting, conversations, even (on the more exciting nights) romantic interludes. They weave in and out, tying in the characters of the book I’m reading, so when I wake again and read the page I’m often confused about where all the other characters have gone, or where the story has gone.
Or I think of the perfect way to shape a felted creature, or a way to do something I’ve been struggling with. I feel a shout in my head, “write it down”, “Draw it!”, “make a note!”
Of course I don’t, and the ideas slip by, like ice cubes in a glass of water. For the next day or so, I can see them, touch their cold surfaces, feel the chill, the slipperiness of them. I could write them down then, but they are insubstantial. I fear frightening them off with a closer look.
What is lovely, though, is settling in to bed with a book, inviting the muse to come meet with me, to take my brain out to play. Even if I never write the stories and forms down, I rejoice in them, I love the antics my brain gets up to when unsupervised. Care to join me on the astral plane?