In order to write I have to be busy and involved with life. Sitting silently in a tucked away corner brooding does not give me great material. I am, after all, a writer and not a rock star.

This past month has not let me down. I have been busy with one thing to deal with after another. I’m moving and have two weeks to pack up two years of living in this flat. I have writing to do, articles to submit. I have emails I have to respond to. I have cleaning that needs to be done and organising different things that have to happen. I have to sign up for an art class that I really want to take and then fit that class into my life somehow. And I’ve been trying to do it all at full steam. I am a writer, and I must write. I sometimes want to nap or sleep or take some much needed downtime, but I don’t. I feel like I could be writing or learning instead or wasting time away under the covers.

However, being so busy and trying to write like mad had taken it’s toll on me and last night I had just run out of steam.

It was only ten o’clock at night and I had literally just fallen into bed. The side of my face smooshed against my pillow, my right limbs hanging off the bed. I couldn’t move, my body was dead to the world.

However, my brain kept going. It kept thinking of a new idea, a new story, something new to write and share. It was working in a magical way when it should have been silent for sleep.

I debated if I should get up and turn on the computer and write all my ideas down. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. I was so exhausted, my limbs were enjoying the sensation of just hanging and my smooshed face wanted nothing more than to remain being smooshed. But the thoughts kept coming.

“I’ll write it down tomorrow,” I thought. But then I thought I’d probably forget and that really, if I were a true writer of writers, I’d get up and write everything down. I argued with myself like this for another 10 minutes and then I declared I was going to get up and just write it all down.

When I got up, I looked at the clock and it was seven thirty in the morning. And of course, I had forgotten every idea that I had last night.

I knew I should have tried to write it down last night, I thought. I felt like I had failed by letting precious ideas fly out of my brain and not record any of them. But then I thought about it. If I’m doing nothing more than exhausting myself, how much quality will I really produce? I needed to re-energize myself, and sleep did that for me. It didn’t take away anything, it fed me.

Which is a good thing too. As soon as I surrendered to the fact that I will have to sleep every day and in fact, do not posses superhero energy, I was granted some more opportunities in writing and was contacted by even more amazing artist friends. I had the energy to respond to everyone, and I even had left over energy for new ideas.

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