There is some magic that happens between midnight and three a.m. Words fall like rain, ideas bloom like tulips in the spring.
That state, somewhere between alpha and theta, when the mind is past meditation and drifting – freed.
Many nights, I wake filled with story. Sometimes I sit up and write, capturing those dream images and ideas. Other times, I hang on to the sweet theta mind and scratch notes to myself that I’ll decipher in the bright light of day.
There’s something quite lovely about theta, about that time of night. The world is soft and quiet. The world is ours and ours alone.
Writers are powerful in the dark, in the aloneness, capturing ideas that flutterby like butterflies.
Once, I fought a poem. The poem lay incomplete, begrudgingly sitting there refusing to become complete. I placed the notebook on the bed and fell asleep.
In a few hours, I sprang to wakefulness when the line in full form drifted by. I snatched it out of theta air and pushed it onto the page.
There, the poem complete.
I woke up one morning with this story playing in the theta playground. I got out of bed and wrote until I had to go to work. When I got back from work, I finished it, edited it, and had it accepted to Pilcrow and Dagger almost immediately.
What’s a girl to do when her ex gives her a stray dog?
Of Strays and Exes – on Kindle