nocturnal creatures (I wrote this last night)

Here I am. Another night writing at one in the morning. I am up late, warmed by the glow of my laptop in a black room, silent for the first time since morning. I’ve been doing this a lot, keeping my eyes wide, long past bedtime, getting glimpses of old ghosts, ghosts I used to avoid in any way possible. 

Stay in brightly lit rooms. 

Surround myself with people. 

Always have music playing or a book in my hand, go to bed early and never ever be silent with myself.

They are less likely to show their faces if I keep myself busy, but on nights like this, they peek around corners. I see them and say, “Hey you. Why don’t you come out? I think that maybe we should  have a conversation.”

I decided to stop avoiding them, and these are the hours that all this can happen. My nights feel like islands. I sit alone. It’s something I have to do in order to be myself. 

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There is a mouse in the house that I live in. He stays rolled up in his little mouse den carved somewhere into a wall by day, but at night he runs from bookcase to pile of paper to kitchen while I type. I like his silent company.

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Everything I have read about the creative life seems to say the same thing. I want to know the answer to these questions: How do I make the time to write? How do I find the energy it takes to search for it? And how do I distinguish the real from all the noise?  

The answer is always very clear: There is no answer, or, maybe, there is. The answer is: You just do it. 

I think, the key is to believe. Art, in any form, is a matter of intention. That’s all I can do. Live with that in mind.