I was reading late into the night, which passed in to the wee morning hours. I skipped right over the witching hour too engrossed in a battle between my three-year-old and her need for sleep and her want to dance with the night owls.
Blast those night owls and their alluring call. I used to want to dance with them too. Afraid of what it would possibly miss if I didn't. I was as aggravating as nails on a chalkboard to my mom with my night owl desires. As my eldest was for me as a single mom in college, and my daughter is to me as a single mom for the week. We are all born in November. I am starting to believe that November is be-witched.
Finally at 1:30 am I was able to settle in to my bed and drift into the lulling rythmn of my book.
I am currently reading, "A Discovery of Witches" by Deborah Harkness.
So what exactly brought on this revelation to my long nursed anger at myself for tossing something I laboured over for approximately three years? I am nearing the end of the book now. I couldn't really get into it for the first bit. I think I was analyzing the characters too much. It gave me too little and I was being an impatient writer. I wanted what I read in my course to reveal itself to me at my bidding. I wasn't able to make the connection to my reading like I normally do. Like I did in the first couple of chapters. This is how I knew it was me and not simply a badly written book. Sometime during the day yesterday I hit a point in the book of no return. I found the characters stride, I was pushed forward into a world I was afraid to know. I laughed, I cried. (Really I did. Books don't make me cry.) It was a roller coaster ride I wasn't willing to put down. In a way I was grateful for my daughter's need for the Night Owls dance, it caused me to have my own dance within the pages of imagination. It was the part where Diana Bishop learns about the magic within her and how to release it. I could relate. It was how I got when I released Marina from inside and set her into her world. It was when I did this that she worked. I paused and thought about my ending. How do I want it? How should it be and sit and work? I was here that I waited for the answer. I felt it stirring and rising to my chest. Speaking to me with a passion I hadn't felt in so long. I quickly rose from my bed and quietly escaped my room and down the stairs, making a beeline for my "writing" book. I held it to me close, trying not to lose what I had just seen. Tried to keep focus, found a pen and still only managed to remember whisps. The images were leaving like faded memories. Too quickly. I tried to push my pencil to paper. Then I remembered to surrender to my character. To the "truth" of my book and I found my ending. I am still unsure of the beginning, I fiddle with the middle, but I know my end. For this I am happy. Exhausted from such little sleep, but content.