When I was younger, I did my best writing at 3am. There was magic in the silence, in the feeling that I was floating alone in a limitless universe, in that middle-of-the-night state of exhausted delirium that got my fingers flying. Perhaps, in that nighttime haze, I briefly stopped taking myself so seriously. It was never a practical system, although doing another degree when my children were tiny and sleepless, I could sometimes alternate writing paragraphs with nursing a waking toddler. Nowadays, I treasure sleep beyond measure, shockingly even more than I treasure creative output. Instead, at any and all times of day, I practice opening the hinges of my brain; I let my eyes glaze over and grab at stray images as they fly past. Sometimes, if I can catch the tail end of a sentence, the rest will come dragging slowly behind.
From the prompt “younger” in 100 Words: the Beauty of Brevity.
When I am tired, everything in my home becomes junk: my treasured books, the art and craft supplies, my children’s toys, well-used kitchen tools, piles of laundry for sorting. I stalk around the house fuming and muttering, sweeping Lego and Magic cards off side tables and armchairs, consolidating stacks of kids’ library books, trying to sort stray items off the dining room table. “We are drowning in junk!” I roar, while my kids watch me accusingly and clutch at their valuables. It doesn’t last long. Sometimes I need to be hustled off to bed like a toddler myself. Sleep restores my sympathetic vision. What is most in my way is also what is most loved and most in use. After each spell of minimalism, I re-embrace creative, chaotic abundance. I’m learning to maintain my sanity by aligning with what is.
From the word prompt “junk.” Doing another stint of 100 Words: The Beauty of Brevity with Maya Stein. I’m going to periodically (or maybe regularly) post these short pieces here, in the order I write them. I’m relaxed about the exact word count – just enjoying the exercise of keeping things brief.