A good night’s sleep hasn’t been had in these here parts by this here writer since sometime in 2021 —and that may even be stretching it.
The one-hour nap cycle, as I like to think of it (one our fitful rest, one hour staring at the ceiling) sleep I have gotten rewards me with the “no one will listen to me” dream. Or a “I can’t find my___________” dream. Or “I’m late for a very important date, Mr. Rabbit” dream.
Then there was the week of nightmares, where I knew I was in a nightmare and couldn’t move. Prayed for one — or all three — of the cats to jump up and down on my head at three a.m. and rescue me from impending doom. (Amara actually came through for me one evening. She got extra tidbits of happiness from the treat jar for her heroics.)
My over-the-counter sleep aids get me started, but nothing has proven to get me through the hours of two a.m. to six a.m. with any real success. A pillow-beating, blanket-fighting, why-do-I-have-all-these-arms-and-legs-good-grief-I-have-more-appendages-than-a-colony-of-octopi kind of restlessness.
Oh, oh. And I completely adore the Princess and the Pea remix. Meaning any slight wrinkle in the sheets or the pajamas or the air itself causes me to get up, readjust, and or roll about like overcooked rotisserie chicken.
At least the chicken is getting some sleep.
My sheep are malfunctioning.
So… I’ve been reading at night.
Last night, Mr. Dean Koontz came up with a wonderful idea.
And let me stop you right there.
Why, yes, in fact, I do enjoy Mr. Koontz at nighttime. Because I can count on one hand — one little digit actually — the number of times my dreams had anything at all to do with my choice of reading materials, especially the fantastically fanatical ones. If anything, my reading-related dreams are fitful rearrangements of real-life day-job juggle of legal, medical, and plumbing (yes, pipes and toilets) marketing firms. Dreams where writers don’t listen to me, I can’t find my laptop charger, and I’m behind deadline, Mr. Rabbit.
Anyway, here’s the bit that made me laugh out loud. Then I had one of those moments where you let your book rest across your chest and you stare off into nothing and consider the possibilities…
Anyway, when Little Miss Muse and I came across this delightful little paragraph, she nudged me hard to the temple, very close to my black eye (yes, a real black eye—story for another day). “You should try that.”
“It would kill me.”
“It doesn’t kill Jocko.”
“Jocko is a fictional character.”
“I read that paragraph ten times. It doesn’t even kill him once.”
“He’s not human. Jocko is a literal lab accident.” I rub my sore eye and pray for a coma.
“At least you’d be getting some sleep. You’ve been looking like a lab accident.”
“It could put me in the hospital.”
“That could be fun… they have real sedation. And purple Jello.”
Only a Muse would think admission to a hospital would be fun.
So, before this blog devolves into a soppy puddle of more whining than I care to write about and more complaining than you care to read about, I’ll bid you a good day.
And a good night.
Now. I hear Little Miss rummaging in the silverware drawer. Curious little imp will try anything once. I need to stop her.
But I do wonder which of my wall plugs carries the highest voltage…
