Nag Monkeys in the dead of night

Lately, I’ve come to realize that my writer-brain is still the weaker part of my gray matter. It fights for usage during the day but loses out to most everything else. There is only one space of time when it’s almost able to hit center stage—during the dark hours of mental collapse (you know – those sucky hours between midnight and 4 a.m.). When the silence screams and the brain chemicals have reached their rock bottom levels. When all sorts of mental mayhem happens.

That is when my still-in-my-head-yet-to-be-written book slides into the unbalanced parking lot for a visit. Scenes jump around, answers to previous asked questions arrive, a puzzle sorts itself out or another nuance adds more fluff to a character’s dimension. The writer brain soon wants to get up and make notes but the tired, over-powering ego-brain declines the invite saying, “Don’t get up. We’re too tired. Fall asleep thinking your important notes and when you wake up they’ll still be there, waiting.”

Now, the writer-brain knows this to be about as effective as trying to recall a dream a day later and so it half-heartedly clings to its desire to rise and write, forcing the ego-brain to call in the big guns—the fear-mongering nag monkey, who quickly steps in for the kill with, ” Your characters are packing. They’ve been abandoned far too long. They’re abandoning you because you waffle away too much time. It’s too, too  late.”

OMG! Stark fear sends the writer-brain skidding straight into that dark musty corner where all bad writers go; the same corner where good writers toss their own nag monkeys when  no longer needed. You know—those good writers who are responsible to their characters, who care about them and are willing to give up life for them. Writers who write their characters into existance. Yeah, that corner

The pale rose of dawn is what finally releases me from the hell corner of heaped up masochistic voices. And only at dawn do I wearily climb from my warm flannel sheets, wipe part of the night crust away and make a brain-smacking cup of coffee to help me spend the next while at my writing space. But, because `the writer-brain is weak, it`s forgotten what-was-what in the book and spends the next hour or two sorting and remembering who`s who and what`s what. And of course, by the time the outline is clear, it`s family time and, as usual, the rest of the day is spent skirting around the writing, all the while knowing the writer in me is being swallowed alive by a vicious cycle of non-productiveness.

And then, before I know it, before the writer-brain can rise above the muck, along comes the night….

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