First thing this morning I was madly plotting out a new story while it was fresh in my brain. It was an idea I’d had during the night.
So many writers have been woken in the middle of the night with a good idea. So many have also learnt the hard way that, despite trying to convince themselves otherwise, they will not remember the idea in the morning. It’s not unusual for writers to keep a notepad next to their bed.
But I wasn’t likely to forget this idea. It left me lying awake, terrified, in the dark. Twice.
My muse hates me, I’ve never been in any doubt about that. She’s never there when I need her, and then demands attention at the most inconvenient times. But this. This was a new low.
I woke from a very, very scary dream; think possessed children with black eyes; and instead of lying there thinking about kittens and candyfloss before attempting to go back to sleep, I found myself plotting the story in my head, and even writing portions of it. So much in fact, that when I did finally get back to sleep, I returned to the dream, and it woke me again.
Yep, my muse hates me. But, to be fair, she did also give me an awesome and terrifying story.