My husband passed out at 7 last night, exhausted from many nights of staying up till all hours to work.  My son was already asleep.  So it was MY NIGHT.  And guess what I did with it?

I wrote.  I wrote and wrote and wrote, and at midnight, I looked up and realized that I had been writing for five hours, and that for those five hours, I had been completely immersed.  It felt like five minutes.  Except I know it was longer, because I generated twenty pages (ten of which will get cut, the other ten of which will get rearranged, but who cares?  They’re out of me and in the story, where they belong.)

During my five hours of blissful writingness, I had a thing happen that happens to writers.  A wonderful thing that sounds creepy and weird but is magical and true.  My characters started doing things without my permission.  I had the next scene fairly planned, in my head, and I knew the emotional journey of it – I thought.  It turned out I was wrong.  Where I had seen angst, my characters said “No, there is no angst here.  We are going to skip the tension and just say what we want to say, because that’s how we roll.”  And it worked.  And I was like, “Hey, thanks, guys.  That’s excellent.”  And they were like, “Shut up and let us talk.”  So I did, and they did, and this morning, I reread it to make sure it didn’t stink (sometimes, I read something after sleeping on it, and I am horrified by the badness I have wrought).  But it didn’t stink, and I’m happy.

The end.