Midnight Writes

So…I suppose this will be simply a random little free-write for anyone who is just looking for something to read. Introductions seem necessary so I’ll start with this:

I had a so-so weirdly awful day. Weird right? Well I’ll just say there was nothing inherently bad about it. I didn’t lose a job, or break a leg, or break up with a significant other, get hit by a bus, or abducted by aliens or any other nonsense like that. I just felt…blah. I suppose that’s the best way to describe it. I’d love to write more on blah one day, but for now we’ll just describe it as that. Just nasty, awful, didn’t want to do anything but lay in bed and maybe eat ice cream and watch some tv. That’s it. Sadly I had to work.

I work at the fair in a corn dog booth…ok they’re not technically corn dogs but they’re basically the same thing and I don’t know how else to describe them. Basically my job is taking hundreds of orders remembering to say “would you like mustard with that?” while roasting in a hot trailer with two fryers and probably fifteen other people around me. Fun stuff. I won’t lie, it’s been better than I expected, but it still just wasn’t how I wanted to spend my day.

It’s my last week in my hometown before moving back up to college…and I’m both excited and nervous at the same time. I’ve been gone for a semester. Things are going to be different. And I’m scared. One thing late nights do are make me more honest…so I guess I’ll just admit that.

Anyhow, yeah I’m sure every reader is sitting there going “sheesh how bad can her life be, she has a job and she is going to school? Where does the bad part come in?”

It doesn’t. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t good. So basically, I’m just a mess of confusion right now with my brain unable to wire off for the night and I’m spending too much time thinking about everything instead of sleeping. And when this happens to me what I tend to do is write down whatever goes through my head. So for those who want a random read, here’s my reflection on midnight writes:


Midnight writes. When my brain won’t shut up and all I want is to sink into the sweet oblivion of sleep. Even after the longest most hectic most awful stressful day. Perhaps even more so then. And no matter how hard I try to flick that off switch it just won’t quite shut off.

So I distract myself. Play a few internet games. Scroll through Facebook. Flip through Pinterest. Try to lose myself in the meaninglessness of pointless internet junk, push my brain into a hole where it can be silent and simply absorb what’s around it. But thoughts keep going, never slowing. Keeping me from ever reaching out into the dreams, I want to carry me away on a silver cloud.

And that’s when it happens. I flip through five different stories. Try my best on them. Write a paragraph of one. A word of another. I might imagine multiple endings. I might just have the urge to delete it all. And then, finally I end up back where it all started. On a blank page.

The flow comes then. Rambling. Ranting. Seeking absolution for the hurts and pains, the confusion, the anger, the indescribable irrational world that is my tortured brain. And it eases some. Soothes. Like balm to fresh wounds, like cold mustard on oil burns earlier in the day (as a corn dog fryer such is my best analogy). For a moment there’s a kind of drug like bliss. Me and the page. An intimacy I can’t ever find anywhere else.

This is why I write. As a young foolish girl I used to vow to never write for fans, fortune, or fame. And I have not. Four books in, never an attempt at publishing. Perhaps there never will be one. Two books sit ominously on my antique chest. Guides to writer’s markets, query letters and more. And yet they are untouched. Forever perhaps. I don’t know.

Such are the ramblings of my disquiet soul. I cannot sleep. And so I drive myself to madness til I reach that small soothing point of a blank page. My lover, my comforter, there for me always in times of need. It can be a blank note on my cell phone, a church bulletin, a napkin. If need be I’ll dictate in my head and hope later I can spill it back into creative form to be read again.

The words of hurt that linger fade away. Tears dry if any have yet fallen. And for a few minutes there is freedom. There is no better listener than a page. Word for word, taken down, kept secret, treasured.

Though real friends come and go, my page is faithful. That loyalty I treasure so much remains mine. And I keep it close. I may not ever be published. But in the end does it matter? If pain was eased? If life became more bearable? If for once late at night, I could simply fall asleep? Perhaps yes. I cannot know. Just one more question for me to ponder in my midnight writes.

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