It’s currently 4:17 in the morning, the third time this week I’ve been wide awake at this hour. Each time it has been for the same reason. Inspiration. For over a month now a story has been pouring out of me and the flow won’t stop no matter what the hour. It has consumed nearly every waking and sleeping moment. For whatever reason, my mind cannot turn it off. After 17 chapters it still doesn’t have a name. A couple of nights ago, I fell asleep thinking about how I was going to introduce a strange memory sequence. At 2 o’clock I woke up with the solution, stumbled down the stairs and starting writing, then crawled back in bed two hours later.
The strangest thing about it is the fact that I’m not even sure I particularly like any of the characters. The story itself is pretty good, but I’ve had better. But this one feels different. This one feels relentless. The pace at which it has revealed itself has been staggering. . .and it’s wearing me out.
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