This Side of Four in the Morning

I fully intended to go to bed early and get a good night's sleep. I was tired and have yet to shake this low-grade fever that has been lingering for a week now. I made my way to bed at a reasonable hour, for me anyway, and after some very pleasant pillow talk and other stuff I won't go into, I lay in bed, drifting off to the sound of something on the television and the white noise of the fan, very peaceful and content in my little world.



I fully intended to fall asleep. I wanted to fall asleep. I was tired.



But my muse had other plans.



As I lay in bed, drifting in that half awake, half asleep place we find ourselves right before we drift off to dream, those moments in which the sounds in the house blend into and are incorporated into your dreams, I heard this voice in my head, unlike any voice I'd experienced before.



It was a man, older, and I could clearly hear him talking, but I could not see him. I let his voice guide me through a fuzzy haze of dark murkiness, until I could see a faint glow of a light, and moving, perhaps even flying in a sense, toward that light, the closer I moved to it, the more I could see.



Into this room I flew, and I landed on a cold, stone covered floor, and there before me this man who belonged to the voice I'd heard, was standing. He could not see me, but I could see him, clearly, and I could hear his voice more clear than if he were speaking directly to me.



I watched in this dream-like state and saw a scene revealed to me, right there, right in front of me, a part of it, but somehow separate from it, and when the scene ended, I sat bolt-upright in bed and said, "That's it!"



Making my apologies to those I woke at 4 am with my impromptu yell, I said out loud, to no one in particular, "I have to go write..."



I could see nothing and no one, hear nothing, feel nothing except this burning passion and desire to write. I had to write, right then, right at that moment, I was driven to write.



And write I did.



Four hours later, I am slipping out of my fog, and I read the words on the computer that my fingers typed, but that my muse wrote for me, and I find I have written two full and, if I dare say so myself, perfect chapters for my new novel FIRESTARTER.



So this morning, tired though I am, I am so grateful to my muse for the talent, the drive, the passion that comes from my writing that compels me to bolt out of bed on the wrong side of four in the morning to write that which amazes even myself.



The passion to write is both a blessing and a curse, and I am grateful, thankful and humble to have that burning passion deep in the core of who I am.



I love my life!



Thank you for sharing my early morning ramblings!



Love and stuff,
Michy