For reasons best known to no one in particular, I'm doing laundry at half past midnight. Not just any laundry, mind, but my bed linens, meaning that my nightly refuge is bare and I'm growing increasingly sleepy. This sleepiness is not aided by either Bach's Works for Trumpet or my remaining dregs of Lagavulin, though that is my company right now. It's good company, irksomely relaxing though it may be.
I had vague hopes of getting some editing done, but editing is not for this time of night. This time of night is where things that will eventually require editing are created. Red pens and rewrites require the harsh light of day and a sober, conscious temperament. These witching hours, for me anyway, see the beginnings of writing. Ideas in their most basic, sentence-fragmented form peek out at the world, triggered by a stumbling of awkward synapses. I need a pen or a keyboard or else I'll just forget them.
And so I'm sitting at my desk, battering out a blog post and keeping one ear on the drier in hopes that it does its magic before I have to pour myself another dram. There are a couple of new docs open, with sentences here and there that will no doubt need examining in tomorrow's refreshed clime.
The cat's asleep on my naked duvet. He doesn't care if it has a cover.