You know, it sort of seems weird that I’m writing about writing, while writing. I would think it would all be one giant act of procrastination, were it not for the fact that writing about my writing helps my writing while I write.
After I wrote what I wrote last night, I noticed a remission in the resentment against the irreverent rogue in question. Thankful that he had become irrelevant, I turned out the light and lay in bed.
Sleep, however, eluded me. My mind seemed almost automatically to dart over to Scene Three, right where I’d left off – at the beginning of the daunting Siddhartha Monologue. After about an hour of tossing and turning, I said, “forget it!” Got up, started cranking it out.
I don’t know what to say but that it was one of those rare experiences when everything seemed to come together almost supernaturally. I wrote the last word, put a period at the end of it, and looked at the clock.
It was four in the morning exactly. I had finished The Siddhartha Monologue. Going back to bed, I rolled over, and in no time at all, I was snoring like a man.