I am so tired, but I’m burning the midnight oil anyway because I have to. I have a baby, don’t I know any better? I should be curled up warm, resting for the day that lies ahead tomorrow. But I can’t. I just can’t.

I’m driven here, to the keyboard and the warm glow of my screen and the promise that if I write for long enough I can transport myself to another world.

Of course I could do this all day long but it’s the nature of being both a procrastinator and a natural night owl that leads me to now instead. Now is the time when ink flows through my veins instead of blood. When I can’t go to sleep because when I try ideas threaten to overwhelm because they’d rather be turned into words.

Now is the time when I write, write, write. Right?