Last night as I was drifting off to sleep a great line came to me. I briefly considered ignoring it and sleeping, trying to remember it in the morning but I know how that story ends. I pulled out my phone and typed it into the notes. I rolled back over and was sinking into the that half-awake space of color and weight when a character showed up, staring at me from the other side of the fence. I paused on my way to sleep to contemplate this new presence and then he started telling me his story. Again, I pulled out my phone and jotted down a few notes to help me remember him and tried to surrender to the comforter and pillow. But my muse had insomnia. A description of landscape came, poetic and metaphorical, the kind of writing that "uh-huhs" me out of complacency, so I wrote it down. Silly me, wanting to sleep when the floodgates were open. The whole damn story came then, interweaved with a story I've been incubating for years. All the interconnecting treads, the weave of the narrative, the voice, my slightly fucked up narrator, the wounds, they all showed up. I've learned the hard way not to ignore the inspiration, the muse. She's like luck, illusive and shocking at times. I listen, honor. Again.