Writer's Cramp

I hear people talk about all of the worries that rush into their head as they lay it on a pillow at night. Money trouble, marriage issues, family disputes, neighbor misunderstandings.  I rarely have those.

I am kept awake by fake people and situations I made up...dialogue never actually spoken, quarrels never given voice, locales I have never been to , rooms I have never entered or exited.

It would be fair to say "I hear voices," which would get a person locked up, if this country had any sort of mental healthcare these days.

I am not trying to be precious. I sometimes wish that side of my brain fully functioned to process day-to-day minutiae, equations to be solved, things to be postmarked.

But it doesn't. I wake all night, omties evral times in an hour, to write things on notepads that I can barely decipher when the morning comes. Banter. An especially-pithy observation. A vivid, yet concise description. 

Not that I am happy about my outstanding American Express balance. Not to minimize that I had to buy a new washing machine and it sure wasn't in the monthly budget. Not that I don't fret about an aging mother, my vomiting cat and whether that's an ingrown hair or a melanoma on my abdomen.

But the things wanting released from my brain...that's what subtracts my sleep. For any artist, creativity is a gift and curse. It cannot be turned off or even dialed down. Some might say that this indicates something inherently wrong -- that I reside among sketchy phantoms who may or may not ever be birthed, that this is a disconnect with reality. They may be right. I wouldn't trade my flights of fancy...but they might be on to something.