Lindsay Klug here, for the last time. I swear.
Why are there only twenty four hours in the day?
I can hardly wake up, get dressed, run errands, clean house, feed kids, keep everyone from fighting, fold laundry, cuddle with my husband, and sleep in twenty four hours. And where am I supposed to write in there?
Throw in a full time job starting in a couple of weeks, and bam! Time has shortened exponentially. Since my job will have me from six in the morning until four in the evening and the kids will have me from four until nine, and the husband wants me for a few hours after that I suppose I’ll just give up sleep.
When insomnia was raging through my life like the ICE train, I managed on an hour of sleep a night. Maybe I can train my body to do so again.
No. Who wants to live on an hour of sleep a night? Maybe I can convince my family that without an hour of writing time per night, I’ll go into a maniacal, demented rage and run through the neighborhood, naked, with my arms flailing above me while laughing with a demonic lilt.
They’d probably want to film the episode and put it on YouTube.
Maybe I can lock myself in the bathroom. We have an extra. Yeah, yeah that might work. I’ll need a sliding lock and mini fridge for the massive amount of water I drink while writing. With ice. Lots of ice.
But at least one of my children is still in the perpetual stage of, “Where’s mom? I can’t see mom. Panic, panic, panic.” So this plan probably won’t work either.
Maybe I’ll just get up an hour early and write before I leave for work. What’s getting up at three thirty instead of four thirty in the grand scheme of things, really?
At least what I write will wake me up pretty quickly. Here’s an unedited snippet from a Halloween piece going into an anthology:
For several hours, I sat on my couch, watching mindless television until I finally drifted into sleep. A soft click had me rolling over on my couch to watch as a man slipped into my unlocked front door. Struggling to sit up, I found my limbs frozen. Terror swept across me as a he disappeared into the shadows.
My head snapped side to side, struggling to see in the flashing lights of the TV. When even the screen flipped off, my apartment cast into darkness, save for the moonlight filtering into the window through my cracked blinds. Squirming under the invisible ropes, I gave a strangled choke when a hand shot over the edge of my couch and gripped my ankle. Using my legs as an anchor, the man pulled himself over, moving as a liquid shadow.
His fingers were long claws, raking across my jeans, tearing the fabric and skin underneath. Blood trickled down the side of my legs to meet the couch. He used my hips for leverage to yank the rest of his body onto mine, the claws latching into my side, leaving deep lacerations and drawing a cry of pain from me.
Pulling each finger from my skin with a vicious tug, he ran his tongue along the wounds, moaning when my blood entered his mouth. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness, couldn’t see anything but the light reflect off the monstrous talons as they reached out to latch into the tender skin along the side of my breasts.
With a scream, I tried to writhe out from underneath him. But his heavy body held me in place by then, even if the invisible ropes weren’t. Blinking, I brought half his face into focus and lost my breath to fear.