The woes of late-night writing

Last night, during my usual late night writing session, it seemed my eye lids were heavier than I’d ever remembered them being. Working on my first ever cyberpunk novel, Lament, I’d write something and nod off…write something and nod off. After about an hour of that, I realized my efforts were futile and closed up shop. The dreamscape beckoned and I had no choice but to answer that siren song.

I was certain I’d wake up this morning to find I’d written something like:

Data ragtag ground ultra-mill high.
Untill of know and us. That paradox of then real, righ.
The planeophyte days.
We we tilt the size were found dubstep drug that was gold, it. At least the hack’s we what films or coders who the time, Big Data.
Big Pharma straws the cool as thrillionaire as next big fucking out the told out the planet. A had no clue what we finary. In to real, righ.
Untill had nothirties, were your fingers were data ruly it. A hand nothing across ribs it was certain squeezingers.

When I awoke this morning, I was shocked to find out that did not happen. Even through the veil of slumber, my words still made sense. Sure there was the usual cleaning up to do, but I hadn’t fallen victim to the dreaded Word Gremlin.

Such is the woes of writing fiction late at night. But then, I’ve always found a certain comfort in diving into the darkening waters when the ambiance of the room matched the mood of the story du jour. The slow drift to sleep is, of course, an added bonus.

Funny thing about that slow drift. While the Sandman’s tug gently pulls you into the abyssal slumber, the strangest things spill from your quill (or onto your screen). On a rare occasion, those oddities make it into the final work. That’s right, I’ve woke up a few times to find something I’d written to be so mind-numbingly odd, I had no choice but to keep it. There is at least one such passage in Klockwerk Kabaret as well as one in Among You. You may or may not find them. If you do, I hope it makes you smile (or drift into a dark and twisty slumber).

Regardless, writing fiction at night is one of the highlights of every day for me…no matter if what I’m writing makes sense or not.

Squeezingers straws finary fingers into the ruly thrillionaire.

Hell yeah! \m/