It’s one thing to put children to bed.
“Are you in your pajamas yet?”
“Have you brushed your teeth?”
“Jordan, get back into bed.”
“Az, have you picked out a story?”
“What do you want, Jordan? All right, you may have a drink of water.”
“Az, would you finish getting into your pajamas? Where are your pants?”
“Jordan, GO BACK TO BED.”
And so on and so forth, until finally they’re both in bed, and the house is quiet.
It’s another matter to put children who live in your head to bed.
“Mom, we want to play! Get up and write us! We want to have our story!”
“Be quiet, Susan. I’m trying to sleep. Out here in the real world, I have to go to work tomorrow.”
“But we can’t sleep! We’re too excited. We’ve got things to do again! Please write us!”
“Adrian, I can’t right now. It’s 3 a.m.! I need my sleep. Why are you, of all people, so interested in being written or rewritten? It’s the same hell for you, just in a slightly different way. Shouldn’t you be in hiding right now?”
“Probably… But Mom, I can’t help myself! This is your fault, you know. We know you love us, and when you’re excited about a story, we get excited too. Shouldn’t you be happy we’re developed enough to talk to you?”
“Yes, but… NOT NOW! I need SLEEP! Go to bed, you two!”
And so it went all night on New Year’s Eve. I wound up finally relaxing and falling asleep around 7 a.m. New Year’s Day, after several hours of fruitless tossing and turning. I wound up going to work mildly concerned that people would think I had spent the evening partying and drinking, rather than arguing with myself.
At the very least, I’ve found an unusual source of inspiration for writing.