Doesn’t it feel nice to have the light still out now that Daylight Savings has occurred? Yeah, makes up for the lost hour of sleep. Well, in part of the time switch it doesn’t feel like it’ll be nearing 11 at all. My routine is usually to read a bit before bed, wash my face, and drink a hot cup of green tea for health’s sake. Bed is the only split-second I feel good about those days when I don’t make my bed.
I try not to write right before I sleep; getting all worked up with my ideas won’t rest my mind and there goes the night. Reading is good, you lose yourself to someone else’s words and it sends you off peacefully into a snooze– especially if you already know the ending so there’s no need to get hung up on the book.
And yet here I am, writing a quick post about not writing.
What’s your sleep habit? More so, when is your cut-off time for your writing? Does writing before bed actually benefit your work? Do you dream about your writing, or do dreams affect your writing?
On a funny note, I’ll recall the one dream I’ve remembered to this day, eight years ago since it was dreamt:
I am inside a Barnes and Noble somewhere on the first floor. There are café tables and chairs laid out near the check-out, and I’m sitting across from a man. We were likely discussing business of some sort when out of nowhere a man in a dark trench coat emerges from the bookshelves and shoots/kills the man I’m talking to.
He starts shooting at me, but misses as I duck between the table and chair and then scurry into the book aisles. I manage to run up the escalators and into an elevator at the top that takes me down to the street level. I realize that I am actually somewhere in Paris, France.
And the assassin is still chasing me. He’s blonde and looks like an actor I’ve seen on a BBC spy show. He’s decidedly a hot assassin. I slow myself down because I remember trying to look back at him.
He sort of catches up but not before I lose him again going into a Victoria’s Secret store that is actually selling bedding. I jump into one of the beds on display and bury myself under the pillows. He looks into the store window, doesn’t see me.
I wake up.