It’s 3:00 in the morning. I woke up a half-hour ago. I thought I was gently tossing and turning, but I guess in
Calvin’s Bill’s sleep-absorbed mind I was jumping up and down on the bed. I got several “Uuuunnnggg!”‘s from him, so I decided to give up the ghost and just go out to the living room. He has to work tomorrow, after all, and I do not.
(Aside: I’m going to amuse myself with keeping track of how many times I automatically type “Calvin” instead of “Bill”. Nine years of this is going to be difficult to break, I suspect.)
It’s cold in here right now. Google’s weather widget says it’s fifty degrees outside, though I’m not going to open the back door and turn on the light to check the thermometer on the patio. Our suburban area is often times a good five degrees cooler than Phoenix itself, which is what I believe the weather widget is based on. Fortunately I did a load of throws and afghans, so I grabbed one from the dryer just now and I am currently curled up on the couch. Ozzy is rather put out that I have the laptop on my lap, when HE could be on my lap. He’s purring like you read about, but alternates between marching in place with his front paws on my hip bone (ow, cat) or standing on the edge of my lap desk and sticking his nose in my ear. Yeah, he’s not fooling me. He’s pretending to be affectionate because he’s cold. It is always thus, in wintertime. Zoe will probably make an appearance soon – she chirped at me from her position at the foot of the bed when I got up, but seemed disinclined to leave the warmth of Calvin’s feet at the time. That will change as soon as she figures out I haven’t just gotten up to go pee or something.
A thought just crossed my mind. See, with as much as I write EVERY SINGLE DAY, for some reason I’m still stuck in the mindset that unless one has a published series of books on the shelf, and makes their primary living putting the written word down on paper, one is not actually a writer. It comes from the definition that I held as a child, I guess, when I used to write stories in my Mead notebook and dream of being an author “some day”. That daydreamed visualization of sitting at a typewriter, reams of paper scattered at my feet, tearing my hair out while searching for an exact phrase, stressing about plots and deadlines and manuscripts. YET. I have pudding-proof that I am wrong in that narrow definition, beyond the fact that the sheer number of my words that exist on the internet (many of them that I actually get PAID for) is ASTOUNDING. My proof is this: the first thing I did when I got up in the middle of the night was start this entry. I didn’t pick up a book, didn’t turn on the TV, didn’t make a cup of tea or do any of the other myriad of things that are in an insomniac’s arsenal. No, I started writing.
When your automatic inclination, when you have some spare time, is to start typing or scribbling away, you’re a writer. Doesn’t matter if you never share your writing with another living soul. Doesn’t matter if it’s poetry or fiction or journaling. When you just HAVE TO write because it’s such a deep set part of you that the thought of writing rather than SLEEPING doesn’t bother you in the slightest, you’re a writer.
That is my deep ponderance for this episode of Insomniac Theater. I am off to surf Hulu and perhaps have a cookie and some tea. I shall leave you with this, which I dedicate to Heather.