Ever get so excited with a new story idea that you can't sleep? Sometimes I get up and write at three in the morning. The story will nip and yelp and whimper, like my Australian Shepard on Fourth of July, until I am forced by unwritten words to stumble to my desk and let it be told. The story then becomes its own creature, needing to be written to fully exist. And I am obliged, as Doctor Frankenstein, to bring it to life.
But why at three in the morning?! Does the story have so little respect for the teller that it does not care about the tiredness that I will face for the rest of the day? For my children, who will have to deal with a grouchy mother? Where is the exchange of love?
Well, the love comes later. It comes later when I discover that, perhaps, the story has enough merit to have been worth a day of sluggishness. But be warned, next story that wakes me in the middle of the night: you had better be damned good! Because I love to sleep for an entire night, and I will lash out at a dull stupid tale that dares to wake me just as a prank