Writer's Notebook

Sleep evaded him. He tossed and turned a hundred times, eyes closed, counting sheep, counting all the different remedies for sleep that were possible. But this was no time for sleep. His mind was awake. He was full of ideas. This was the time to banish sleep and let creativity take over. He got up and crept into the salon so as not to wake anyone else. But as he put pen to paper, he realised, this was the wrong pen. This was to be a work of art; he needed his plume, nothing else would do. But how to get hold of it without waking his wife. He crept back into their room and crawled to his desk. Waiting a few minutes to let his eyes get accustomed to the darkness, he opened the draw and pulled out all he needed. Back he went, but hardly had he got outside, then he realised inkwell was missing. He must have put it down beside where he was sitting and if his wife got up and knocked it over, there'd be hell to play. This is when he realised, that it was no use. The creativity had gone out of him now. He'd probably never right again. He crept back to his bedroom hoping beyond hope that he might get a little sleep, when his alarm clock woke him out of the fretful state of unconscious he'd been in for the last few hours. Why on earth had he set his alarm clock. Of course! He had to get to his agent's up in London by 9 o'clock. Today he was signing the contract on the first book: "Sleepless Nights".