creative writing describe insomnia

Sleepless [writing prompt]

by Joe Bunting | 270 comments

For this writing practice, use the following  creative writing prompt :

Your characters haven't gotten any sleep. Write about it.

Write about being sleepless for fifteen minutes . When your time is up, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to comment on a few practices by other writers.

Photo by Alyssa Miller

Here's my practice:

Even after growing out of adolescence and into mortgage-paying adulthood, he hated to go to sleep. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy sleeping. On Sundays, he liked to lie in until mid-morning when his housemate would begin to do the dishes intentionally too loud and the guilt at his irresponsibility would bring him to a groggy wakefulness. No, he enjoyed sleep, but he resisted transition into sleep until as late as possible, procrastinating the inevitable until exhaustion or panic at the prospect of waking up exhausted in just a few hours forced him to bed, where he would often toss and turn for thirty minutes or more.

It was after just such a night that he met Gwen.

Joe Bunting

Joe Bunting is an author and the leader of The Write Practice community. He is also the author of the new book Crowdsourcing Paris , a real life adventure story set in France. It was a #1 New Release on Amazon. Follow him on Instagram (@jhbunting).

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270 Comments

The clock ticked. Tick. Tock. I turned over and groaned, pulling the sheet up to my shoulders. Tick. Tock. Tick. Why did I have insomnia tonight of all night? Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I groaned and sat up. My room was dark. My eyes adjusted fairly quickly though. I turned on my lamp and looked to the clock on the wall. Usually it helped me to fall asleep, but not tonight. I really needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow was an important day. I’d be seeing my boyfriend. We’d been apart for two months and his homecoming would be spectacular. I sighed. I really needed to get back to sleep. I looked at the time. 12:59 AM. Ugh, will I ever get to sleep? I need to get up at 7:45. I decided to try some techniques I had learned to sleep. Since I had already tried to lull myself to sleep by imagining “Zz’s” in my head, I crossed that out. I also crossed out trying to relax my body, since that hadn’t worked. My next trick was yoga. I sat up my mat and started with a sun salutation. As I continued through the sequences, my muscles began to stretch and lengthen. When I finished, I was sore and sweaty. It was 2 AM. I lay back down to sleep. After tossing and turning for twenty more minutes, I got back up. Maybe I needed some water or something to eat. I served myself some grapes and milk. After eating and drinking, I tried again to sleep. No such luck. I tried tea. Nothing. Finally I went to see what I could do on my laptop. Sugar and salt was the answer. I went to the kitchen and mixed some up and took just a fourth of a teaspoonful. As I climber back in bed, tiredness swept over me. I was exhausted. I looked at the clock. 3:00 AM. I yawned and turned off my light. I thought about my boyfriend and he was my last thought as I drifted into dreamland.

I hate this kind of sleeplessness! It makes me tired just reading all she went through trying to calm her body. I liked the ‘tick tock’ rythm at the beginning.

“I need to get up at 7:45” … Sometimes the more you think about what time you need to get up, the harder it is to go to sleep. But the longer you can’t get to sleep, the more you think about what time you need to get up …

Thank you for your reply! I always need kind words to help me feel like I’m actually succeeding as a writer.

I loved the insertions of the “Tick. Tock.” but you abandoned it! After “but not tonight” Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.

It makes time an oppressive and obnoxious force in the piece.

They have the reference to counting sheep. Often, I’ll just think of sheep jumping over the fence at about 3 second intervals. I count them. Rarely do I ever make it to 100.

Thank you for your reply!

I thought about keeping on with the “Tick. Tock.” But in the end, I didn’t. I’m not quite sure why.

Maybe because she gave up on sleeping.

Your story is relatable. I like how you referenced the methods of trying to sleep.

She swallowed her pills, turned on the heating blanket and crawled in beside her kitty. A perfect formula for perfect sleep.

As if on cue her eyes blinked open and slowly became accustomed to the darkness. The Sandman had bypassed her house again tonight. Just as the Tooth Fairy had when she was a child. Just as Santa had when she was a child. . Just as Jesus had when her mother died. Jesus must have been otherwise engaged. He couldn’t have missed her prayers, there were so many of them. “Has his eye on the sparrow.” There must have been a lot of needy sparrows. That’s when she began to doubt the whole God and Jesus thing.

Santa had stopped coming when the church had disfellowshipped her dad for drunkenness. Jesus stopped listening soon afterward.

Her monkey mind was all over the place by now as she forced her eyes to close and fought to go to sleep. Nothing, none of the drowsiness she felt when she tried so hard to stay awake during a test or a sermon.

There had been a time when she fought sleep. When she put on all the clothes she could and pulled the covers up to her neck. When she listened for footsteps in the hall and the sound of the door knob turning.

A very troubled character. I hope things turn around for her.

this is really emotional piece, very sad, but authentic. I loved “monkey mind”, exactly how it feels when our thoughts race so randomly. The voice sounds like a lost girl and you were consistent with that – I hope you continue this piece with this voice.

“You look like ten miles of rough road”, said Jack’s boss as he peeled himself out of his truck and made his way into the barn. “You pull an all nighter?” “Same dream, boss. That’s a week straight. I bet ain’t slept three full hours in the past seven days, and I know I haven’t slept for at least 48 hours.” “Now, why’d you go and tell me that? I can’t let you punch a clock knowing you ain’t got your wits about you.” “What’s there to worry about?”, asked Jack, incredulously. “We’re pushing cows into the canyon so we can brand em. It don’t take a genius to do that. I can do that in my sleep, for Pete’s sake. The work will do me good.” Reluctantly, the boss watched him saddle his mare and ride out through the back side of the barn and across the meadow and disappear down over and onto the trail to Bullet Hole Canyon. Jack thought about that dream. Who is the beautiful woman calling his name? He shuddered as he rehearsed the scene. She smiles at him and draws him in to her kiss. He wants to kiss her. Her lips are full and inviting. Her eyes are dreamy. He sees her slowly close her eyes, anticipating his lips upon hers. He closes his eyes so they can be one as they kiss. Where there should be warmth, the coldness of a steel blade is thrust between his shoulder blades. He opens his wide and in terror realizes his phantom love has morphed into a hideous creature with stringy white hair and half a face.

Fifteen minutes is up. I have to go back to work.

Love how the dream babe turns into a hideous creature!

Get rid of the dog, idiot…Sell Max to Disney, maybe they’ll use it for one of their Disney princess movies, like Little Mermaid.

(The idiot is aimed at the NARRATOR, not the author!)

I was going to say, “puberty” until you mentioned the knife, which I was secretly hoping for.

Thanks, this was an excellent little piece.

I’m lost at this comment.

The white hair and half face to me suggests a dog. Max, the dog from Little Mermaid, looks exactly like what I was thinking.

As for the puberty part… I felt that was self-explanatory humor. I’m glad you went with the knife stabbing thing, I’ll put it that way.

I was born asleep. This upset the doctor that delivered me so much that he smacked the living daylights into me. Perhaps I was merely unconscious because of the drugs he gave my mother an hour before delivery of a new sort of human. Ever since I’ve been wishing to slide back into that languorous state of nothingness; the black, empty backstage before the show. Before the time of feelings, disappointments and judgements, when nothing had names. I yearn for that dark silence inside the bud of life, everything unknown. In a single moment of REM sleep lies an alternate reality, a world of respite, wrapped in the warmth of a blanket: bobbing in the Caribbean Sea like a jelly fish or walking in amber light with my mother as the leaves rustle and glide to the ground. Anything is possible in a dream. But for me sleep is not an option and my “dreams” are waking fantasies. I’ve never slept again since that first minute on Earth.

You really made those emotions and tangible with your adjectives and metahpors. It gave me goosebumbps 🙂 It’s a haunting idea that somebody who find such escape in sleep, has lost their safety.

Goosebumps! Thank you, Karoline.

Absolutely beautiful! I really like the “empty backstage before the show” and “walking in amber light with my mother as the leaves rustle and glide to the ground” very descriptive!

remarkable…vivid…telling… beautiful…”familiar”–ie I somehow understood those feelings you wove. Your words touched my core.

Way to turn the prompt on its head! If this character has indeed never slept again since being born asleep, he/she’s got major problems! Will you develop it?

I’m not sure I’ll develop it, but it was fun to write. I’m reading a science fiction book called Beggars in Spain, about humans genetically modified so they do not need sleep. There seems to me something inherently sad in that, as I adore sleep and I get tired of my waking life sometimes. So the prompt of sleeplessness was perfect to play with.

I really liked this piece. Your descriptions are vivid and artistic.

I’ve heard alcoholics, as well as others, can reach a point of sleep deprivation where they have REM while they are awake.

I too love my sleep.

It is amazing how easily the big things roll out as if they have no inertia except when you try to stop thinking about them then they roll over everything else in their path,

great first sentence – hooked me right away!

I really loved this bit of prose!

(pure opinion:) I didn’t like the final sentence though, it seems to infuse quite a ‘grand’ narrative that feels slightly at odds with the ambiguity of what’s come before.

I feel like thats describing lucid dreaming. I like your detail

It’s beautiful

This is amazing!

Very vivid imagery.

Absolutely fantastic, may I show this to some students as an example of good creative writing?

I get all comfy and turn off the lights only to realize I can’t get to sleep. I’m exhausted and as the hours tick away my mind wanders into the deep recesses of my mind.

I start thinking about stories I am writing and the project that’s due and wonder if freelance writing is something I should stick with or find a steady job doing anything just to get a regular paycheck, with all of these things rolling around in my brain, I finally drift off to sleep. Once I am awake I realize that I had some crazy thoughts and go about my day very tired hoping that I get some sleep tonight.

**Screams**

This character already frightens me. Their mind can wander into itself.

It like folds into itself like space! It’s like physically walking around in your own head, walking in your brain, while you are asleep.

This passage is very expressive. But, I feel it lacks the details to make it a memorable piece. Mull it over in your mind, until you can pick out those critical details. It makes a huge difference.

Thanks for sharing!

“The black, empty backstage before the show.”

I love it. Great expressions.

Thanks. Somehow I double posted my practice today. So this version was deleted. There’s a clone copy below. I liked the rancher/ sci fi possibilities in your piece. If your character meets the dream girl, I think he should proceed with caution!

Thump, one beat. Thump…Thump, two beats. Thump…thump…thump, three beats. Thump…thump…thump, thump, four beats. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, five beats. Trapped in an endless whirl of darkness, I can’t help but be nervous. Why am I trapped in this darkness without light? I can’t wait until my fantasy becomes my reality. My hearts beats faster, stronger, and louder. I will persevere. I will win at life. This is another battle between light and darkness. I will use this opportunity to conjure up new ideas in the midst of this darkness. How do I make myself faint? Will that allow me to escape the darkness I so despise? I want to come up with ingenious ideas to erase this darkness. My eyes are starting to burn with scarlet hues. Subconsciously, I grasp my blanket and covered my face. The burning scarlet hues again pitched into darkness. Sigh. I pull down my blanket, and my eyes starts to squint itself into a moon-shape crevice. Yes, it is morning again. I failed to defeat the darkness by dreaming again.

I like the repetition of certain words. Very interesting!

I liked it, though I found it a little confusing. I’ve found it is almost impossible to sleep during daylight if you can see the sunshine. I had a lot of issues sleeping when I worked nights.

I didn’t care for the thumps at the beginning. Maybe if they were alternated with the story. I assume they were supposed to be the heartbeats.

Thanks James for the feedback. yep they were heartbeats

Since arriving at Alavare Castle, most nights are are just a lost battle between sleep and awake for me. Nightmares which feel real are less easily endured than dark hours spent thinking and pacing. I thought staying here would be the easy part. As I anticipated, everybody is fooled, the women are intruiged; it’s no differerent than home, really. Although my motives have not hampered my conscience, it’s the deception I’m forcefully weilding that has become my vice. The girl, espeically, provokes my mission and I continually lie to myself. If her eyes weren’t so honest and full of desperate hope, pulling her close and pushing her away wouldn’t be so hard. Though the job pays well, I’m not certain that the vile side effects of my work could ever be justified. Until I have an answer for this onus, sleepless, I expect to remain.

A little confusing. As a reader, I felt kind of like you weren’t letting me really know too much of what was going on. Otherwise, I thought some of what seems to be reflections of the narrator were realistic and interesting. Dark deeds are not an easy think to sleep on, I imagine. You go a little crazy.

Out damned spot! Out, I say! – Lady Macbeth

Confusion was what I wanted. 🙂 I wanted to allude to the characters’s emotions, more than I wanted you to know exactly what he was experiencing. I was going for the “how” rather than the “what”. You could think of it as an opening chapter in a book; I wanted to tantalize the reader without giving much away. Thanks for the feedback!

She lay on the soft mattress, watching the ceiling. It was well past three in the morning, probably getting towards four o’clock by now. She didn’t have any clocks in her room that could be used in the dark; she couldn’t sleep unless it was dark. Truly dark. Not just the sort of city-dark that was grey and punctuated by the angry yellow of streetlights. Or the clear-night dark where the moon felt as though it was as bright as the sun. She needed it to be the kind of dark that your eyes never got used to, the kind of dark where you closed your eyes and nothing changed.

She’d not slept properly for as long as she could remember, her parents had done all they could to light-proof her room as a child, and it had worked up to a point, but even since she’d moved out, or rather been thrown out, she’d not been able to achieve that same level of near-perfect dark to allow her to get a proper night’s sleep.

It’s strange what lack of sleep does to you. Not just the pulled-an-all-nighter kind of lack of sleep, or the went-to-bed-late-because-I-was-watching-videos-on-the-internet lack of sleep. If you don’t sleep properly for weeks and months on end, you go insane. You begin to see things, your brain doesn’t function properly, you can hardly handle routine activities, you lose your job, you scrape and scrounge to make enough money to pay rent, your friends stop talking to you and your parents get pissed off because you promise to call or visit and you never do because you forget that you were ever going to. Whole days just disappear and your entire existence begins to boil down to the precious hours of the night where you’re lying on your bed trying desperately to just shut your eyes and sleep and you can’t. You see doctors and they prescribe pills, but the pills don’t work, they just make you drowsy, which you are already, so you function even less well.

When you do sleep you dream. The less you sleep, the more you dream, that’s how it works, apparently. Your dreams are so vivid they could be real; in fact you’re more of a functioning human being when you’re dreaming than when you’re awake because your brain doesn’t have to bother with telling the rest of your body what to do, it just does it.

In her dreams she had a wonderful life. She had a boyfriend, a good job and a nice apartment. She was happy when she was asleep. Happier than she had even been when she was awake. The problem was that she only slept a few hours a night, and the more she began to crave those precious moments when exhaustion overcame the rest of her, the less sleep she got.

Maybe there was a way to sleep forever… to sleep perchance to dream.

I really like this, you’ve really made me feel as if I’m IN that state of insomnia. I also love the phrase “punctuated by the angry yellow of streetlights”. It gives a nice punchiness. Good job!

I can actually relate to this. I dream more and don’t get enough deep sleep; lately I feel like it is beginning to affect my everyday life. Very interesting and relatable. Keep it up!

Loved the descriptive rhythm about the dark in the first paragraph.

I loved all of this, highly immersive. I loved the details. I’m interesting in what is going to happen to this character, and if there are meaning to her dreams.

She should get a coffin. 🙂

You’ve captured the feeling of chronic insomnia, the desperation and isolation it causes.

I agree with the others’ comments, and I like your phrase about “the kind of dark where you close your eyes and nothing changes”. Very descriptive of chronic insomnia just verging on scary and anxious for one’s state of mind. Perhaps rooted in childhood trauma of some kind? The makings of a good story!

Such a wonderful description of the effect that a lack of sleep has on you, and how it can interfere with every day normal functioning. Thank you for sharing.

“in fact you’re more of a functioning human being when you’re dreaming than when you’re awake because your brain doesn’t have to bother with telling the rest of your body what to do, it just does it.” perfectly put 🙂

Sophie stared at the ceiling. The wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden slats they had nailed across the windows and howled through holes in the roof. It moaned through the pilings under the floor, competing with the moans that it carried from further off. Sophie shuddered despite the warmth of the night. A single candle burned beside the dirty mattress on the floor that was scattered with dry leaves and broken belongings. The flickering light gave her little comfort, but it was still preferable to the suffocating blackness without it.

Sophie could hear Dylan’s soft, even breathing beside her. She wished she could sleep like him. Before all this happened, she was always amazed at how easily he fell asleep. When they caught a flight somewhere together, Dylan would usually be asleep before the plane would take off, and would wake up just as the plane was landing. Now, despite the howling wind, uncomfortable mattress and the terrible danger lurking outside, he was out like a light.

There was a sudden rustling in the corner of the room and Sophie sat up like a shot. She peered into the gloom, the candle not giving enough light from its place on the floor for her to clearly see to the other side of the room. She picked up the candle and thrust it forward, just in time to see a rat scurry down a small hole in the floorboards. She let out the breath she realised she’d been holding and sagged back against the mattress.

She was starting to think she would never sleep again.

Vivid and relatable. My wife always falls asleep before me. I find, I sleep quickly only when I slightly deprived myself of sleep. I’ve got myself use to only 6 hours of sleep a night. Now, I sleep without so much resistance.

My wife also does this funny thing before she sleeps, where her muscles twitch. It happens just as she nods off. My kids do it too sometimes.

Nice details. I can see the character’s fear. I love the way you write. So captivating.

Thanks James! That’s what’s known as a “Hypnic Jerk”, more commonly known as a “sleep start”. I do it to on occasion 🙂 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypnic_jerk

We must swap email addresses for critiquing!

Yes, but that response sounds much more… violent. This is just a twitch of their muscles, before they are actually asleep. It may be the same thing. After all, you are the psychologist, I am the programmer .

Yes we must.

[email protected]

I’ve also got a blog up at vozey.wordpress.com.

You have set the scene well and given us a good idea of the characters state of mind. I like the feeling the single candle gives to the scene.

great action words for the wind here that set the scene so vividly: the wind whistled, it moaned. Also, the flicker of light from the lone candle added to the creepiness of trying to sleep where they were. Loved how you positioned Dylan asleep without fear while Sophie’s heart raced…well done!

Thanks for your feedback!

To call it merely unnatural was to be optimistic. There had been other sleepless nights, where Cass would toss and turn and feel helplessly restless, but none quite like tonight. His eyes would close and he would lie still, and then the sound of his breathing would get to him or the blankets would be too warm or his pajamas would induce the slightest itch and his eyes would open again, and he’d turn over and try sleeping on the other side. But even when such distractions were for the most part ignored (with difficulty), the fact still stood that Cass simply was not tired. His eyes closed, but there wasn’t the same soothing feeling that came on other nights—it was as if he was out and about again, when closing your eyes was simply that and not an invitation for rest. The brain was far too worked up in those times. But there was no such excitement now. Nothing was happening tomorrow; there was simply a tomorrow, just like there was a yesterday, or a today.

His body screamed for sleep. In fits of frustration through the night he, too, would yell and slam the walls until his hands throbbed. It wasn’t until four in the morning that he decided to give up—and in the moment he stood up in his bedroom, a dizziness swept over him and Cass crumpled to the floor, reaching his hand out for the phone on the nightstand only to find that it was quivering uncontrollably.

A little strange. I wonder what is going on with him. Sounds like a stroke or something.

Right back to the beginning, the night goes through. The silence and the occasional sound of car passes by my window, they keep me company. Nowadays we can be so much protected in a wall of entertainment that we can even claim sovereignty, in the kingdom of our own homes, as long as we have food on our fridge, some music to change the energy of the night and a couple of films we have longed to watch, “the kind of night you promisse yourself you are finally going to watch Amadeus. As long as life moves like that, we can even forget the life outside and wait, letting the rain fall. There is the other part in that little world, when sleep never comes, when everything is left behind, and we are either bewildered by the fact that life is going to wake up in full bloom tomorrow and it is already four am. Or we might be stuck on thoughts of a life ahead of us, or making considerations weather other people that are living might have any connection with our own solipsism, eventually it feels that the whole castle of sand is falling down and you are stuck between worlds.

Despite it all, I sleep, trying to forget all about myself. In dreams, I wake up again not knowing how I got there. The same old dream of the machinery of life.

Wow. Interesting to read. Love the image of “eventually it feels that the whole castle of sand is falling down and you are stuck between worlds.” –that impacted my senses.

Nice that you liked Susan, it inspires me to work more on the paragraph I have written.

Was a little confusing at times. I wasn’t sure how the caste and sovereignty fit in with not being able to sleep, unless it was something that the character was dreaming about. Or a symbol of waking life?

it makes the falling down sand castle seem to say, “my life is falling apart, sometimes dreams make it feel only half real.”

I felt there were some rather interesting elements in this. I was a little confused by some of the grammatical errors.

Thanks for sharing, I really enjoyed the read.

Hey, I was talking about the taking part of not being able to sleep, and how can it can both ways, a downward spiral, but sometimes it can quite nice to enjoy the solitude of the night, although I don’t think I have explored that much on the text. I will correct the errors, and work a little more to have it more clear. Thanks for the insight James!

I really liked this piece and your use of language here to describe things that are familiar and connected them like “the kingdom of our own homes” and “the whole castle of sand is falling down” . One suggestion is to write the whole piece in first person. By using “we” it took me outside the person who heard a car pass her window…I think it would be stronger and would take us into the narrators head in a more intimate way.

She lied in that bed, that disgusting bed. It had no sheets.And a stain from adventures a few hours before. Somehow Nick was able to sleep. He could just drift away on the naked pillows and sullied mattress pad. She, on the other hand, worried. During the day everything was fun and play, but when the darkness painted the blue sky black. When the darkness crashed over her like a wave washing away the radiance of the day. She was alone. She feared the dreams she would have warning her of the threat he was to her happiness. She knew once they awoke she would be under his spell again. His golden locks and bright blue eyes would blind her. The glowing blue in his eyes and in the sky hypnotized her. She knew she would forget the darkness that warned her, the darkness that was able to shed light onto the truth. In this moment she knew that either way she was trapped.

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Interesting contrast between the “knowing” we have in the silence of the dark, and being tricked when we can see. Your details at the begin definitely set the scene.

“Your details at the begin definitely set the scene.”

Hahaha…

OK…details, details, James. Will “file away” your “catch” as an example to use at some point. Good one.

Thank you Susan!

Rass had slept. For twelve hours even. But he found his body resistant to all his motions. The tissues of all his muscles cried out in pain at every motion, at any motion, even without motion. He stumbled about the room, gathering his things. In his sheer tiredness, he had not even removed his boots. He had slept upon Ranou’s back much of the journey.

His clammy body was pale white and ghostly. The bags under his eyes were dark blue and black. He sat before the dresser mirror. The allure to place his head upon his soft arms far outweighed the knowledge of the result. Just for a… moment…

He jumped, suddenly, kicking the desk and shaking the mirror. A few loose items on the desk toppled off onto the floor. He brushed his hair and sighed. He felt like such a disappoint to his companions. But, then again, they would have died without his healing powers. When a cleric pressed his powers too far, wore himself past his limit, this was the result. This was the third day. Hopefully prayer in a proper church could alleviate the heavy burden on him. He scooted the chair across the floor with a groaning creak. He sighed. Hopefully…

I like the pace of this. The short sentences help to move the narrative along very quickly, and put the reader in the midst of the action. Nice one!

I like the sentence, “The tissues of all his muscles cried out in pain at every motion, at any motion, even without motion.”

“The allure to place his head upon his soft arms far outweighed the knowledge of the result” – Oh yes. I can feel that kind of tired.

“He felt like such a disappoint to his companions.” I’m assuming that’s supposed to be ‘disappointment.’ (But I didn’t even notice it until I typed the sentence out. lol!) I’m wondering why he felt like a disappointment to them? Because he had slept for twelve hours?

Also, “he scooted the chair across the floor with a groaning creak” sounds like he’s doing the groaning creak. Maybe he is, but it sounds like more of a chair sound 🙂

He feels like a disappointment, thanks for pointing that out, because he has been completely sleepy the last few days. Instead of being useful or sociable, he was too darn tired to interact with them. No one else was this tired and they don’t truly understand yet the consequences and draining that overuse of clerical abilities brings.

I thought the groaning creak was odd, but I think I like it. He himself doesn’t groan, but maybe that is the way he hears it. A groan, like “I don’t want to leave the dresser, I want to sleep on it.”

I see…it’s a familiar case of taking for granted something we need (and maybe even can’t live without!). I think it would show his emotions in a stronger way if, instead of saying, “he felt like a disappointment,” word it, “They were disappointed with him.”

He and the chair are groaning and creaking in unison 🙂

Excellent suggestion on the “They were disappointed with him.” Much more of a mind set of the character, but it would probably have to be monologue, because I’m not sure the narrator can lie.

A great description of the heaviness associated with exhaustion. That Rass feels a loyalty and responsibility towards his friends is apparent. Being a cleric, the third day, a proper church, the burden, all evocative of religion of course, but transplanted into — what? another time or age? a different culture?

This illustrates what you said in other comments — that the same themes (human frailty, emotions, expectations, sense of mission) can be explored in diverse worlds!

Not only that, but from what I’ve heard, those are the best…

Oh, and it add consequences to magic.

This is the way it has usually been in my life. I lie down to and get comfortable ready to sleep, and my brain refuses to turn off. Instead, my thoughts go wandering into the shadowy corners where I have tucked worries of all sizes. I pull on the smallest. Am I handling the situation at work the right way? And, the bigger ones follow them out. Am I going to get paid enough to cover the bills? Have I wasted my life? They are all attached to each other and usually go in order from small to universe filling. It has been this way since I was young enough to have sentient thoughts. I have come up with a sort of solution; I never go to bed until I can’t stay awake. I am a little less tired, because I don’t stress myself into insomnia. Maybe I will figure out a more perfect solution like controlling my rampaging anxieties, but for now it is late nights and no caffeine after noon.

I like the idea of tugging on the smallest anxiety, and all of the other ones from small to huge come tumbling out. I identify with the “sort of solution” — it’s one I’ve used myself, with just about the results you describe, “a little less tired”. Clear language. A good effort IMO!

I can identify with what you’ve written about when your brain refuses to turn off. When I can’t sleep, it’s exactly like a switch in my brain that takes me into sleep mode has stopped functioning, and anxieties fill the vacuum where dreams should be. I think you’ve summed up the dreaded curse of insomnia perfectly!

Well I am just trying to write what I know and I have had a lot of experience in this area.

An excellent description of insomnia. I’ve found that the small to big transition happens all the time in life and in writing. Dialog, for example, is best when the characters small talk leads to riveting revelations.

His wife of twenty-one years had had her say, her words few and grating and cold and hoarse there at the end. Her silence now spoke other volumes. She lay facing away from him, her sides moving in imitation of a state of sleep.

His hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling he had painted only last spring. A world ago.

So his daughter would give him a grandchild — but he’d never see it if the plan now forming, the only sensible option it seemed to them, saw completion. Seeing as there were at least two possibilities as to the father’s identity — what in God’s great world had the girl been THINKING? You try to bring ’em up right, you try to do what th’ Lord wants and raise godly children, and you give ’em everything and that little red convertible for graduation . . . I shoulda been harder on these kids. Shoulda kicked ’em right good ‘n’ solid ever’ time they looked around funny.

What am I SAYING? This is my daughter, and I love her so much. Oh Lord, how long? Like Job scraping himself with a potsherd. My heart is broken, as these tears running down towards my ears attest….

Only thing to do is, repent and mend my ways as a parent. There are going to be some reforms around here. Her brother Jesse eleven now and I already catch him . . . . Eleven years old! The rebellion already in that boy’s eyes.

You know, I haven’t had the old birds-and-bees talk with him yet. I’ll do that this weekend.

That boy’s gonna HEAR me….

(looking over what I’ve written, I find this falls into one of my major fallacies, where all the action takes place in a character’s thoughts. A mental vignette is so often what I end up with. Oh well, at least I wrote something. Gotta learn some new motif’s……)

I think I catch what you are saying. I think what is missing in this passage is not dialog or action, but details. You haven’t told us enough of what was going on, and, when you did, it was kind of in a weird way.

Without those critical details of exactly what the daughter has done, why the narrator won’t be able to see his grandchild, we can’t identify with the narrator’s emotions well enough to understand why his anger is boiling over to the point of extremity. Why he thinks it is HIS fault.

I mean, come on! You work hard every day to earn penny-by-penny the money to send them off to school, and then they wipe their ass with the paper! What the hell did I do wrong!?

James, thank you for your valuable and very personable comments, the reader’s-eye view. This is yet another fragment of my perennial w.i.p, a memoir, only a small portion of which yet exists as ms, most of that piecemeal results of my work with the Write Practice. The information you miss as a reader, such as that the daughter’s “offense” was to get herself pregnant (on-the-job hazard if you’re breathing and teenaged), that the “solution” agreed upon was sending her off to a School for Wayward Girls (this was in mid-1960s), birthing in that captivity, and giving the child up immediately for adoption, and that the father often felt himself a failure in living up to his religious beliefs — all of these would have to be crafted into the narrative, and my perspective now of looking back years or decades after is in itself so mental…I have trouble showing the action rather than cogitating the after-effects (for all of us). And struggle with questioning, is this really a story the world needs to hear? (heart says yes, but sometimes doubt it), and am I worthy of telling it (lots of doubt on that one). I am perhaps afraid, perhaps lazy, probably a mixture of both. I could also be accused of writing with an agenda, since eleven-year-old “Jesse” is me!

And yes, “You work hard every day …what the*hell* did I do wrong!?” is something most every parent feels sometime or other.

Thanks for reading!

No problem.

Take multiple passes. Action, dialog, details, emotions, thoughts. Make up things to make it wholesome. When I try to tell a story that is true, I can’t remember every single detail. But those details are still needed. It doesn’t have to be historically accurate. In fact, the only portion that has to be accurate is the parts you want to be accurate. You can tell the same themes set in a post-apocalyptic world infested with zebra-zombies.

“And struggle with questioning, is this really a story the world needs to hear?”

Probably. If not, write it anyway.

“Am I worthy of telling it?”

Yes. humility is good, self-strangulation, not so good. Who will tell it if you don’t?

You are sitting there. You are attempting to. That is better than most people do.

Remind yourself that you have the guts to pursue your dreams — sadly, most people don’t — and that simply the fact that you’re tough enough to fight for what you want makes you and your life and your goals worth celebrating.

Multiple passes relating to those different aspects, good advice. Oh, I think I just now snapped to your meaning of “wholesome”, as whole, complete, add made-up details to make it work as a complete story. Now I think I get it. And I have more discretion over accuracy where and when, than I’d realized. This is excellent instruction on how to fill out my story!

Thank you for everything you’ve shared, for the absolutely great thoughts on “worthy of telling it”, and for the boost to the courage to “write it anyway”.

No problem. I’m glad I could help.

Daniel was going through a period of self-quantification. He decided this indulgence sprung from his training as a scientist and not the mire of recent anxieties. For him, to sleep is to perform. Too little or too much and he could not become optimal. Daniel had to be optimal and he now employed a device to keep an eye on his sleep.

He was not yet fully qualified (nor, indeed, quantified) as a scientist, although he thought of himself as the kind who would, one day, sign his published research ‘Dan’. He developed faith in numbers; he believed in the power of reassurance that only devices can provide.

The device would monitor Daniel’s movements and turnings throughout the night. The device would assign a number marking the quality of his sleep. The device would praise him and, by lying very still, Daniel might increase his score. The next time Daniel slept, he would dream of prizes.

Fascinating! After reading just the first couple of lines, I felt like I was inside of Daniel’s scientist brain 🙂 I really enjoyed this.

This was interesting. The character’s ambitions are immediately visible.

Thanks! Glad you enjoyed it.

Very objective and factual writing. Sounds very scientific.

Thanks! Just what I was going for.

Twin bed or double.

He had followed Adrienne’s suggestion to get a double mattress, but he still wasn’t sure which size bed he hated more. The empty space beside him was a knife through his heart, serving to remind him what he had lost. But it was still bearable. Sleeping in a twin bed would be a twist of the knife – making everything real and, worst of all, final.

Even though it had been nearly two years, he was still terrified about what the acceptance of Evelyn’s death would do to him.

He turned to his side to eliminate half of the black weight that pressed in on him from all corners of the room. Now the empty pillow beside him taunted him. With a slash of his arm, he sent it flying across the room. Then he turned the other way. That was better. The other half of the bed was behind him. If he willed it, he could hear her soft breathing behind him, and forget.

A dark form appeared in the doorway. “I can’t sleep, Daddy.” Adrienne’s whisper shattered the gloom of loneliness. He sat up and stretched across the bed to grab the pillow from its slouched position against the skirting board.

That made two of them.

I found this very emotional, and believable, how you revealed your character’s sense of grief through his changed sleeping arrangements. When you described your character imagining his lost partner breathing next to him, it was like I could hear her breathing too. Good job!

I agree with the others. This is emotionally grabbing.

I too found this emotional. I loved that Adrienne came to join him. It’s the perfect touch.

I wonder if the daughter really can’t sleep, or if she simply is saying that for his sake…

Hm, now I’m wondering the same thing …

Still in haiku mode, sorry 😉 : Mary couldn’t sleep ‘Til she started counting sheep, How the things would bleat!

haha! Made me smile 🙂

That’s great!

He didn’t want to fall asleep.

He didn’t want to close his eyes. He didn’t want to rest. He didn’t want to forget. The moment he does, he knew he would never come back. He knew he would never return to the life he was living in; the life he was familiar with. He knew, the second he woke up, he would forget. The next hour would consist of him attempting to remember a dream he had inhabited for so long. He would forget again. He would forget everything. He would forget his baby daughters’ first words, he would forget the type of flowers he had given to his wife on their first date, he would forget the first few words of advice his father had given him when he was nine–he would forget everything and everyone. Everything and everyone that he loved. He didn’t want to fall asleep. As his wife would shake him constantly, telling him to sleep, he would stay awake the whole night knowing that he shouldn’t. And really, he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to fall asleep. He would rather remain sleepless, a brain-dead insomniac, than forget the things he will never have. The things that only exist in long, neverending dreams.

Interesting thing you got going with the repetition. Alzheimer?

Actually, something more tragic: supposedly the man suffers from a retrograde and anterograde amnesia, which supposedly makes him forget everything from his past, and forget every new memory he makes after. Has nothing to do with sleep though, because he’ll forget everything anyway. Soon he should be able to actually forget why he can’t sleep.

Zack couldn’t sleep. He didn’t really care.

As a demon, sleep was not a needed resource. He wasn’t like the human female down the hall, whose snoring he could hear from the room they had shoved him into. It was as far from the human as a bedroom could get. Not that he could blame them, though-after all, he did try to kill the human when they first met. The human didn’t trust him. Neither did its two guardian angels. The only person in the miserable giant mansion that did trust him was her.

“Her” referred to Annie, the ghost of a teenage girl who had been allowed into the estate shortly before him. She was always smiling, always up for a good practical joke.

Zack thought that this was what humans called being best friends with someone, the constant joking and laughing and talking and eating, the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw her, the tendency to smile and set the fridge on fire, the way his red eyes lit up and pale skin felt flushed at the sight of the frail transparent girl. She made living in a mansion with a human and two celestial beings….tolerable. She didn’t scream at him when he wandered around wearing only a button-down shirt and boxers like the human did, she grinned and ate ice cream with him and offered to help him look for his missing jeans.

He turned over in the nest of blankets and pillows he had made on the mattress, wondering what Annie was doing. Did she need to sleep? She had been human before she died….. Did she like strawberry lollipops? Would she be interested with seeing what happened when you soaked jeans in gasoline and put them on a fire demon?

Lots of different elements that are not commonly seen together. demons and ghosts demons and boxer shorts demons and lollipops demons and blue jeans

I liked his focus on the ghost character. Interesting.

Welcome to the Write Practice!

It makes me curious what type of dimension/world this must be that humans, ghosts, demons and guardian angels live together. The fact that he was “allowed” into the estate. I can definitely feel his affection for Annie and loved that he spent his sleepless nights thinking of ways to woo her. Great, creative, unexpected post.

I love what you wrote. If this were the beginning of a story, I’d like to read it.

Wow, I really like this! If you wrote a book, I would definitely read it.

I like that the demon can see the humans guardian angels its a interesting take on demons for me I think that’s because of the personality I’m seeing through his thoughts.

This is weird and very fun. I hope there’s more!

The only light in the bedroom came from a bedside digital alarm clock, glowing in red, and the channel indicator on the cable box across the room. Larry had been awake for three hours already, after dozing for about half an hour when he first went to bed. For a while, his thoughts kept him company. Thinking about his new story, about the characters and their back stories. But now he was bored. Bored and angry. The alarm would go off in four hours. Not enough sleep for what he had to do in the morning. He reached for his iPhone from the night stand and clicked on the photography icon. Opening his Camera+ app, he tested to see what he could capture in the darkness. The light from the phone screen silhouetted the hairs on his fingers. Looks cool, he thought. He turned the phone to the clock face. 2:30 a.m. He angled the phone and took a few shots of the time. Looked at it in the photo gallery function. Then tried a few more shots, angling and moving in and out. I can use this in my next blog, he thought. That’s when the earthquake struck.

As he was taking pictures around his dark room, I started to feel a little nervous that he may take a photo of something disturbing. Though earthquakes are disturbing for sure. I like the build up toward the earthquake. I definitely knew something was coming and I’m no cheater; I don’t look ahead.

Thanks. I wasn’t sure if the earthquake was too much of a punch. But I’ve had nights like this, unable to sleep and fussing with my phone. And yes, the earthquake was true too, but long before iPhones were a reality.

I like the vivid setting you created, and agree with Brina that the build-up to the earthquake was great.

Conscious that I am no longer asleep, I sneak a confirming peek at the glowing eye-level LED blinking 3:42 a.m. Cheated out of two hours of respite, I lift my head, I grasp the pillow underneath it and perform a two-handed fluff. Then I grab the synthetic down comforter and toss it up in the air. Arms on top of the covers. Tucking them under now. Okay, back to sleep. Not quick enough. Thoughts of the work day seep in. That 10 a.m. meeting I’m dreading…what to do about Blanche…confrontation hasn’t worked…maybe…and so it goes until the day begins again with Adele blasting me awake with “Skyfall.”

The best part is, “Okay, back to sleep. Not quick enough.” Love that!

Thanks for the encouragement, Victoria. This is my first post so it was a little scary.

You’re very welcome. I haven’t been on here long either. Glad you got up the courage to write a first post 🙂

You’ll find this an amazing place. I just joined in very recently and have benefited so much from reading others’ posts. It’s definitely “safe” to share your writing here. I’m new at this, so my writing is not as developed as some other folks’, and yet people take it seriously and give constructive, heartfelt feedback. Liked your piece.

Susan, thanks for responding positively. I will keep trying and I look forward to reading your pieces.

She had arrived at the hospital a bit before noon yesterday; just about 22 hours ago. It had been a process of hurry up and wait followed by more waiting. She tried to get some sleep around midnight, but the beeps and the knowledge that the tides could shift and baby could be born at any moment wouldn’t allow her eyes to close for more than a few moments at a time. On one occasion when she felt as though she were drifting off into a warm, black abyss for a moment, there was a flurry of nurses and concerned voices. Any hope to get real sleep was lost.

But now, as she made her way down the hallway one last time after holding her sweet nephew for the first time and embracing her sister, she felt she were leaving a temporary home. She checked her badge in with the security guard one last time and was saddened when she advised that she would not be back. The sun was low on the horizon and with having not slept the night before, her body wasn’t entirely certain it wasn’t sunset. Her direction also lacking, so the sun resting just above the Eastern horizon meant nothing to her.

As she exited the glass, circular entry, the wooshing automatic doors behind her sounded so final. Unlike the night before when she came to her vehicle to get one last item before the main entrance was locked down, the parking lot was full. Vehicles belonging to people, she assumed, who were there for much less exciting things than a new family member.

“Good morning!” a brunette in her fifties chirped. She automatically responded in kind, but not before her brain balked a bit, questioning “Is it morning?” She glanced around, the light was a bit too bright, the edges were a bit too hard and her life and children and husband yet 2 hours away, seemed a dream.

She needed coffee.

This writing could use a firm edit. It was hard to get into. Though it was not hard to follow, it failed to pique my interest. I’ll attempt a critique, since no one else has…

Introduction is overly-concerned with frivolous or redundant details.

She arrived at the hospital twenty-four hours ago. The process of a hurried wait and waiting, was more exhausting than hurrying or waiting separately. She felt like the Energizer Bunny after the batteries had been removed. Around midnight, she tried to sleep, but beeps, talking, or was it silence, and the occasional cry of a child made her restless. The baby could come at any time, and she didn’t want to be asleep when that moment came. Finally, exhaustion won out, and her eyes closed, Soon after she had drifted into a warm and black abyss, a flurry of nurses and concerned voices dashed it away and any hope of sleeping again.

This would now introduce a struggle for the character. She wants something, she has obstacles. Beforehand, it feels more like arbitrary events happening to a character. A flat character who doesn’t do much, the world just happens to her.

I hope this helps. Thanks for sharing.

Thank you so much for giving me a truly authentic critique. I was trying to capture a moment when I had been awake all night and I walked outside for the first time. I felt alert, but my body and senses were confused. As a result I felt displaced, no longer a part of what was happening in the hospital room, yet not back home. I admit that I didn’t put the focus where I was wanting it to be. Thanks again!

No problem, I hope it helps. I think it is a great emotional time, and I think simply the fact that that wasn’t your focus made it a little awkward in a way. I’ve always found trips like that to be highly-energized and overly exhausting. But then again, I’ve been there three times with my own children, and the first time, me and my wife walked away empty-handed.

The second time, an emergency C-section.

The third time a planned C-section.

Take out the anxiety, and it doesn’t seem right to me. Personal experience.

This was my first time with this experience not being the woman in labor. It was very different. I’m sorry to hear about your first child. More than sorry. I can imagine that your connection to this experience is rife with anxiety and must have been difficult to relate to my description. Since it was not filled with anxiety as much as it was long and tiring. Thanks again! I don’t submit often, but I would love to hear your thoughts on anything I submit in the future.

Well, you are responsive, and that is more than I can say for a few of the posts I respond to. As long as the community remains responsive and genuine, we all stand to grow as writers.

But, I also understand time constraints…

My writing experience has been in the academic realm. When I finished my master’s in Linguistics last year, I set the goal of developing the more creative writer in me. (Loved the day I realized I owned the words, “I am a writer.”)

This “sleepless” piece I wrote may be pedestrian, but “thewritepractice” has inspired me to continue working to create a writing practice. I haven’t established a routine or habit yet, but decided to take this occasion to carry out the 15-minute prompt response. No time for editing or digging deeper for images. That’s all okay. We can still walk together even if you’ve run marathons before me.

Thanks for giving a space for my words, and for surrounding one another’s work with luscious feedback.

SLEEPLESS….

Heather stood up in the staff meeting to introduce herself to the new faculty. She was met by lilting applause from those in the know. Susan was one of the new ones, thus she just assumed people were exaggerating their greetings, as most people had remained seated during their own introductions. Her thoughts were dispersed by an “in the know” relating that Heather had given birth during the summer. “To boy-girl twins,” Heather made sure to add. “How old are they?” chorused the giddy crowd. “Two months.” “So how was your sleep last night?” a woman chimed in, certain she knew it was nonexistent or chopped into pieces. “Oh, it was good, actually…” …NO! DON’T SAY IT, Susan shouted in her head, hair bristling on her neck. Really…no need to tell us how the babies are sleeping! “They’re sleeping ten hours a night.” Aaaaaahhhhh! How these mothers bragged about their perfect babies, slumbering snugly in their cribs, dreaming about their fascinating toes.

Susan hated this topic. No sleep for her. 11 pm was sleep time for her baby. “Give the baby a warm bath to help him sleep,” was the sage, indisputable advice of the parenting books. That didn’t work. At least Susan felt less crazy when her husband deciphered their conundrum and realized it had the opposite effect of waking their son up. “Feed him rice cereal before he sleeps so he won’t wake up to eat,” was the sage, indisputable advice of the grandmothers. Nope, he still wanted to nurse…once…twice…while others slept.

It wouldn’t be until her son was three years old that he slept through the night, with only a dozen occasions prior to that.

“Don’t talk to me about babies sleeping through the night,” Susan shouted inside with each encounter with a bright-eyed, bragging mother.

swa 9/25/2013

OK, James Hall. After your comment about my briliant “details at the beginning setting the scene”, I’ll save you some time: “thewritepractice” inspiring a writing practice…really!?!? HA HA = )

Couldn’t help it. I found myself tongue tied as what to say on the last one. Something about the genetic material sprayed all over the sheets just… made it hard to comment. Your “details at the beginning set the scene” said everything that I was thinking, with an added layer of subtext. It doesn’t comment on the like or dislike of that particular scene. I was of mixed opinion.

I misunderstood your intent (as a comment on the story). I thought it was just saying that I stated the “obvious” (the beginning of a story setting the scene). Thus my follow-up comment above about stating the “obvious” about the write practice.

I felt there may have been a misunderstanding. We don’t have tone of voice or anything to go off of on here. These things happen.

Interesting topic and easy to relate to for anyone that has kids.

The warm bath and rice cereal work alright. My first kid had colic.

I liked the monologue, besides the all CAPS THING. Splitting the dialog, as opposed to stringing it all together would add to readability and cognition.

From what I’ve read, you are the only one who chose kids as the source of the character’s lack of sleep. Interestingly enough, they are one of the greatest sleep deprivation drivers there are.

Thanks for the feedback, James. My next challenge for myself is to actually do some rewrites.

I do that all the time, I just have to commit myself to moving on. So far, I think I’ve succeeded in this. I’ve reached 50,000 words on my novel.

Never stop yourself from writing something stupid.

Never stop yourself from correcting something stupid.

I think as long as writer’s follow those two things, they are writing at their best and stand to make the most advancement.

I’ll remember your “never stop yourself” advice!

The darkness was his friend; the light made his insomnia claw at the back of his retinas. The shadows hid his sunken face. He knew that everybody stared, they didn’t understand, his sleepless days and nights had slowly merged in to a dream, or a nightmare; he was a husk meandering through the monotony of life without a thought or emotion. Every night he lay in his bed, his dark eyes staring through the gloom at the ceiling, praying he could fall asleep. He examined the cracks, hairline fractures through the ornate plaster, and sometimes, just sometimes, he begged for them to widen. Like the jaws of hell he longed for them to open and just swallow him, to tear him from the soft fabric of his bed and end this cycle of tedium and desperation. He cried out for that ceiling to collapse and bury him for all eternity; anything to end the constant suffering. But every night they lay dormant, and he lay motionless, just staring, staring, staring at the cracks.

Interesting descriptions and emotions. You’ve described the suffering character vividly.

It reminds me of a passage in the bible, in Revelations, when people KNOW that god exists, and yet they worship the satan and pray to the rocks to fall on their heads.

It makes me wonder. If He gives so many opportunities to those who don’t deserve another chance, how many does He give to those who do?

but then those who dont need redemption do not need chances; You only get as many chances as you need. The believer who worships does not need chances. The non believer who does not worship does not need chances as they are not looking for redemption or forgiveness. But the believer who despite his knowledge worships Satan is redeemable, and thus needs every chance to be saved.

I am atheist, but studied the Bible in my first year at Uni, and this was my understanding of the basis of forgiveness.

My focus in what I am saying is on good people who don’t believe. There are those with goodwill towards others, and there are those without goodwill towards others.

I’ve always believe at an internal level, because there is little the outside world can do to prove either the existence or non-existence of God.

The anguish is loud and clear. I felt it.

feel not only the tiredness but a depression that is eating at him.

Click,click; click,click. The cards dance before my eyes. Red Queen appears, onto Black King. click,click Black Jack onto Red Queen. It’s 2:00am and I should be in bed but I can’t sleep tonight. No particular reason, just words and images racing around my mind. So here I sit, staring into the computer, finger on the mouse button, willing the next card to be the Red Ten. I like Solitaire, it consoles my mind and keeps me semi-sane most of the time. Otherwise I have to confront all the world throws at me. So I sit here as clicl.click seduces me into a state of peace, at least as long as the cards keep falling. After an hour or so I will go back to bed, hopefully relaxed enough to sleep at last. But until then, click,click.

Could use a little more action, but I can identify. Solitaire is great… when you are bored

captures a feeling repetition and maybe a dullness from the word click click being repeated.

Usually exhausted after a day of comforting the families of the dead, Carla fell asleep in five minutes. Tonight, though, for reasons she couldn’t put into words, her shoulders were tight. Had she absorbed too much trauma at the funeral of the murdered graduate student? She couldn’t say.

Then she heard a thud downstairs. That’s funny, she thought, I wonder what it is? She started to head down to investigate, but stopped. What if someone was in the house? There had been several break-ins recently in her neighborhood. The police thought it was kids, but she knew from that foreign student’s experience that kids can do bad things when they find a woman alone in a house.

Nah. It was probably just the house settling. But a prickling worked itself up from her belly through her stomach to her chest. She heard another thud and froze.

She looked around for her phone to call 911 then swore when she realized she’d left it downstairs. Another thud. She looked around her room for a weapon and fixed her gaze instead on her heavy dresser. She dragged it in front of her door as footsteps walked across her creaky living room floor.

Suspenseful, bravo!

I really liked this. Lots of fine details that make the stories work, from the funeral to the break-ins.

Loved the feeling of suspense you managed to capture in such a short span of words!

Yikes!! I shouldn’t have read that late at night. : )

Oh dear. Tell me it’s just a friend coming to wish her Happy Birthday or something! Nice job!

like this horror feeling. it’s fun.

Love the suspense!

This is really great

I really liked it, left me curious.

Your story is mysterious. I like how you describe the fear of your character.

Better than what I could write. Very descriptive. Nice

Woah, this is great! Left me wanting more!

The sour taste of coffee I had drunk six hours ago still lingered somewhere in the back of my mouth. I breathed out gently, forcing my muscles to relax for the umpteenth, but sleep refused to accept my invitation. Pushing away the blanket, I sat up groggily and peered into the desk clock. “3 AM” it read in ominous letters and I clicked the alarm off.

Missing office for one day…not such a big deal.

The big deal was that I couldn’t sleep right now. I walked over to the window and looked at the silent picture outside. Hundreds of cars parked in rows, trees dripping with dew (or was it raining?), and an occasional dog barking.

Frustrated, I jumped into bed and pulled the blanket over my head, shouting at myself, hoping that I would finally fall asleep. After half an hour of no sleep, I kicked the blanket away, opened the door and turned on the shower (yes, in my clothes). Once fresh, I sat at the dining table and ate a few chips while reading a book.

The morning slowly presented itself to me through the tiny window in the kitchen and, as the clock finally struck 7:30 AM, I pushed away my chair, opened the bedroom door and fell into bed, asleep before I had time to think of what I had done…!

“Sleep refused to accept my invitation”? I think it more likely that “sleep never sent me an invitation”.

“Jumped into bed” seems a little off.

shouting at myself… go with a monologue or dialog, might be more interesting. “Damn it Kerpal! Go to sleep!”

Shower in his clothes? I missed the part where the narrator smoked something…

An interesting piece Saunved. Nice details, I can tell the character is tired and frustrated.

I edited the piece. Thanks for the great suggestions, especially the part where he had to smoke 😉

Oh, I like the smoke on the balcony. If he is a regular smoker though, the cigarette will taste like crap if he has had very many.

But, I like it this way, an enjoyable smoke and the sunrise.

But I don’t like your punchline. I never got it anyway. Try this…

He enjoys the smoke, sees the sun coming up, and thinks, “why the hell am I so uptight about sleeping now anyway? Whats the rush?”

Then, maybe he goes in an falls straight to sleep.

But I especially like the contrasting calmness, in contrast to his frustration and anger, that bring him to finally rest.

Excellent work Saunved. It is nice to see your dedication.

I edited it a little bit more (the last paragraph). Keep on telling me if it’s still wrong (or sounds off). I enjoy constructive criticism 🙂

You took out the sun rising part. Put it back. It was a magical moment of relaxation.

Still think “What’s the rush?” would fit best in the last paragraph, though you might try other things.

Oh dear! I took out that part by mistake. I added it back again. Check it once more please 🙂 Hope its sounding slightly better than before!

Much better.

Go through this scene, step-by-step, and picture it in your mind. Close your eyes, be where the narrator is. See if you can add any more details.

I’m guessing the narrator misses work?

He is a little bit lazy about work 😉 I pictured the scene in my mind. Yeah, there can be lots more changes but I’ll leave it at this for now. Sorry for being so late. I was sick for a few days!

Glad to see that you are back. Hope you are feeling much better.

If I disappear for a few days, either I’m doing some serious writing, battling a never-ending honey-do list, or its the weekend.

She laid her head on the cool sheets, breathing in deeply before collapsing into a sigh. Her phone began to chime in her purse, muffled by the fabric.

“That’s my alarm. So now it’s exactly twenty-four hours. Since I last slept, I mean, you know what I mean . . .”

With an effort, she pushed away from the bed again, blinking and contorting her face in a way that suggested to her body that she ought to stay awake. That she ought to keep her eyes open. That she ought to watch.

“Brought you coffee.”

He stood in the doorway, momentarily amused before his tentative smile shattered in the stale hospital air.

“I don’t think I can bear another cup.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Give it here.”

She winced at the heat, but she’d all ready burnt her mouth beyond tasting anything except that faint sour flavor. Her stomach cringed.

“Any sign?”

She sat back, coffee hanging in her fingers, laced between her knees. She stared at the ceiling, breathing in the smell of latex, rubbing alcohol, hundreds of sick people and one sick person in particular.

“Hasn’t stirred.”

One sick child.

“She will.”

After a moment, he took the coffee from her limp fingers, afraid she’d drop it as she slept, dozing lightly as outside the sun rose again, and her phone continued to chime.

What seemed at first a very casual piece, ended up having an emotional impact on me and made me put myself in the situation.

I agree with Susan, but less supportively. I felt thrown by the sudden invoking of setting. I do like this story though and I identify with the narrator.

Exhausted and trembling, surrounded by faceless onlookers, it was all I could do to turn to face my malefactor.

“Why?” I cried.

I sank to the ground. The Nightmare King approached silently, and reached a hand gently out to me.

“Ja’Shazadi …”

I sucked in a breath to hear him speak my name.

“Do you think I’m a monster?”

“What do you want from me?” I said. “I was four years old. Why did you come to me? Why won’t you leave me alone? I’m just a girl, what could I have done to make you hate me so much?”

“I love you,” said the Nightmare King.

My breath was stolen. I couldn’t utter a sound.

“I’ve witnessed the births of many creatures, but none more beautiful than you, Ja’Shazadi. You enchanted me the moment you first showed yourself to me. I’ve wanted nothing more than to see you, and to protect you from the malevolent spirits that watch us even now.”

“No … No!” I shouted. “You love me? You’ve made my whole life a curse! It’s because you’ve been ruling my dreams that my life is such a wreck! How could you do that and say you love me?”

“I couldn’t meet you in the waking world, but I could see you in the world of your dreams. There I appeared, and we together would have been happy had you not rejected me. Each night, I presented myself anew, and each night, you rejected me more violently than the last. The more violently you rejected me, the more violently I had to react in turn. I never meant to hurt you.”

I put my head to the ground. I was utterly numb.

“I have spoken the truth. Now I ask, do you return my love?”

I looked up. There, looking at his shadowy face, my bewilderment turn to anger, and then to pure hatred.

Wow…very cool and powerful concept. I’m curious. Is this connected to something you’ve worked on or had an idea about before, or did you create it initially from this prompt? Sounds like it could be developed into a short story.

Interesting. Don’t care too much for the character’s name Ja’Shazadi. Its a mouthful with an apostrophe.

I really like the ideas presented, but I kind of was confused by the course of events. It sound like he “hit on her” when she rejected him. This ultimately resulted in him kidnapping her.

Dang Pedophile Nightmare Kings!

Other than that, its great. Would love to hear more.

Interesting. I would like to know more.

It’s nights like this where my body is is a system of contradictions. Limbs tired and heavy, trunk prone on the soft sheets, but my brain, my complex , overworked bundle of nerves is running a mile a minute. Fueled by thoughts of deadlines, overpriced coffee, deadlines, breakfast, traffic , of “you should sleep now, you should sleep now”, lost things, and “you should sleep now”, no wonder it is deaf to the heart’s steady pitter patter . My eyes alternating between closing and opening is ever the devil’s advocate .

Interesting description.

It’s a fresh crisp night with a new love in the air…

Its flowing into my veins, soul, mind and hearts as it fills my soul awaking it alive and twirls with a a funky beat making me fight the prisoner sleep! It lures me and taunts my soul into wanting to rest in peace finally and take it away in another world. But no! I don’t care and cannot fall into the deep end in allowing my soul to sub come the prisoner, I shal run break free and allow this delicious sound keep my soul alive all night and swirl inside me like a carnival live, with its lights, constant movement of a never ending scenario of so many delicious jams causing all of these beautiful feelings and emotions inside. I just cannot gotta keep moving and just feeling these delicious never ending sounds that keeps melting into my ears and flowing in my soul and screaming with an sound that makes me come so alive that I can not stop tasting. Its showing all over my skin causing me to glow and feel like never before. A solution to my problems, a cure to my condition in keeping me going and never being a prisoner of sleep!!

My first impression is that the narrator must be a lovesick alien with multiple hearts. I hope you like satire!

Excellent use of stream of consciousness and run-ons.

Wow! Sorry, but I didn’t make sense of most of this. The thoughts bounce too much.

I couldn’t find any purpose in “an sound” or several of the other seemingly errors. If these have a purpose, they were not presented in a way that I understood. If these were not intentional, please revise.

I feel like there is an interesting thing being said here, of breaking away from being a prisoner of sleep. But there are many oddities about it. Would love to know more about this passage.

Oh, and welcome to the write practice! This is the go-to place to improve your writing skills. Thanks for sharing!

Oh love of mine. Restorer of hope. Healer of many. Come to me now. Ease my mind from the fear and anxious pain, a pain that I will not meet for quite some time but a pain none the less. Steal me away, carry me softly yet unmoving and still. I need you now. I’ve endured too much without you, you’ve been with others. I see them slowly drift off with you into nothingness, blackest of black, placid relief. It’s not my body that needs to heal but my mind, even if I am not mended,at the very least I will get a break from this hell. Take me away, wherever you please, now and forever if you please.

Okay Romeo. We said sleepless not dreamy. Wake up.

This is actually very elegantly-written. Welcome to the write practice. I’ve noticed that old prompts tend to get forgotten FOREVER. It seems to take a lot of work to get one of them jump started again. But, they can still serve as good practice.

What types of stories do you aspire to write?

That was really beautiful. I felt myself flow through the words not a single little snag. Thank you for sharing 🙂

Thank you. That’s exactly what I was going for. I really appreciate having someone that enjoys writing read this piece. I had a lot of fun writing because it flowed so easily.

Awake again. How many nights has that been already, Martje thought back, it been a been at least week of sleeplessness, for all of them. She laid there in the dark seething and listening the restlessness of the others. Things were not going to turn out well, it was too much pressure for them all and the cracks were starting to appear. She knew they were all awake too but they’d made a pact to lay and stay quietly, eyes closed throughout the dark hours, but the air was tense and she was sure they were all feeling it.

Damon was going to be the first problem. Martje had watched him over the last few days and his clam was sliding. She’d caught more than a few vacant looks on his face. He was drifting from his part of the task and at this point even momentary slips might be all that was needed for the Cravens to break all of them. Martje rolled over. She would never get used to stones on the hard ground. She acknowledged her frustration toward the stones and at not being able to address Damon’s little concentration lapses. Bringing it up now, in the sleep deprived state they were all in, was likely to start a fight that would draw lines of blood some would never repair. Martje groaned, she would risk opening her eye’s more for the relaxation from trying to keep them closed. When she did Damon was inches from her face.

I sometimes lately wonder if something it is wrong with me, it worries me specially because I have two young daughters that I would hate to leave alone and worry if they would turn out alright, my worries are that I might have the big C which it is a kiss of death now days, and this would create a new whole world of wonders and pain, I have always been a person that sleeps as little as possible that’s what my wife tells me, she loves to sleep I on the other hand do not, I guess this could be atributed to a job that I held for about 3 years working the graveyard, but now I just do not know…

She didn’t like to sleep because then the dreams would come. She slept only when she collapsed in exhaustion. She’d do anything to blot them out.

But she couldn’t. Sleep would come again, taking her out of this world into another one, an inner one. The monsters came, distorted faces laughed as they chased. And she had to run. She ran and ran, her breath tight from running so hard and yet they were always right at her heels, catching up.

She woke up sweating and alone in the dark. She’d walk to the kitchen eat something and turn on the tv. Let the light float on her retina. Drowning out any darkness and she watched it, the glow dancing on her eyes until she passed out.

Day would come and she’d drag herself up to the alarm. Miserable and tired, her body ached and mind screamed I need more sleep, she got up and got her clothes, brushed her hair a quick stroke or two, then ran for the door as the bus drove up, opening its doors like welcoming jaws and then swooshed her off to another day of school.

Wow. It felt so real. The way you describe her nightmares, “the monsters came, distorted faces laughed as they chased”, “she woke up sweating and alone in the dark”, really adds dimension to the scene. I’d love to write a scene with that much urgency. Great job! : )

If you get a chance, would you mind critiquing my post? Thanks and keep up the good work!

thank you. 🙂

Julia opened her eyes and sighed. It was no use. Sleep would not come. She crawled out of bed and eased open her door. The hall was quiet and dark. She felt her way along the wall to the back door and after disarming the alarm, stepped out onto the back porch. Cool night air brushed over her. She rubbed her arms and climbed into the hammock, listening to the soft rustling of the high tree branches. Sean’s face flashed in her mind. She shut her eyes, trying to dismiss the images and the feelings that surfaced. His hard hands. His low voice as he ordered her not to scream. She opened her eyes and swallowed, huddling into a ball in the hammock’s embrace.

I liked the line, “Cool night air brushed over her.” And her feeling her way through the dark house. It changed tones when she got outside and as she started to relax the image of a pretty scary sounding man came to her. It sounds pretty good so far. It’s a little short is all I’d say.

I really appreciate your feedback. I’m glad the man sounded scary! : )

Was it short in the way you wanted to know what happened next, or was it short like I rushed the scene?

no it doesn’t feel rushed to me.

Instead of the line It was no use. sleep would not come. If there is a way to describe her tiredness that would be good instead of saying it. I have a lot of trouble with that though too. When you say the hall was quiet and dark, you could try to find a more interesting word choice. Or take out that sentence start with the next sentence and say for instance: everything was still. Looking out she couldn’t see anything, she felt her way along the wall. that isn’t the best way to say something, but it is a way to make the story more active.

It was a long night full of tossing and turning, curling up into a tight ball, attempting to stay warm. As she pulled her blankets up to her chin and lay on the cold, hard ground inside her tent, Paige was reminded of how much she detested camping. The same inability to get comfortable and drift off to sleep that was plaguing her now always happened on camping trips. Counting sheep, or even the beautiful, sparkling stars above her did not help. No amount of blankets, pillows, and sleeping bags made it more comfortable. Add to that the CONSTANTLY chirping crickets and she was ready to head back to civilization, though it was only the first night of the week-long trip. Paige rolled over, careful not to wake her sleeping sister, and glanced at the time on her phone. It read 1 a.m. She sighed in exasperation. It was going to be a long week.

-I know I’m a little late in posting something for this prompt, but it looked like a cool idea and I wanted to try it. 🙂 feedback would be awesome even if it’s to say this is completely terrible…

Thoughts constantly roll through my mind, apathetic to my need for cerebral silence. I think of the train in Blues Brothers, that roars by every 20 minutes or however often, shaking the entire room. My brain is never quiet when I so desperately need it to be, but screams only for sleep the moment my alarm sounds. I would kill for internal tranquility, but it never comes. I rummage through a checklist of the day’s social feaux pas’ and the litany of urgent matters I must see to tomorrow. I struggle to read the scrawl of my own perception; everything appears so much more terrible than it must actually be. Why is my mind’s handwriting so shitty at 2am?

Somewhere on the coast a few miles away, I hear that fog horn sound. I hear it every night, and realize I’d been waiting for it. Suddenly I know with complete certainty that if I were on that boat, bobbing on the Pacific, I’d drift right to sleep. I think of the narcotic marine layer, the chilly breeze, the sound of the occasional seagull proclaiming its loneliness. Yes, that’s where sleep is. That’s where relief is. Just the thought of it brings me tantalizingly close to my first sleep in days, but sleep never fully accepts me. Peace lies only on that boat.

My apartment building is deserted at 2 in the morning. I guess that’s a testament to the quality of its tenants. I hear my car chirp its location and walk towards it. If my insomnia is so bad that I’m actually doing this, then it must be worth a shot. I turn my car on and flip on my brights. A scream erupts from the pit of my stomach. A sopping wet man in a yellow nylon jacket and hat stands in front of my car. His leathery face wears a solemn expression of understanding and pity. He looks so gruesomely familiar, yet completely alien to me. I try to throw my car in reverse but the my key has disappeared from the ignition. He casts one last look of helpless apology and walks toward my building. He sheds the jacket, revealing a pair of pajamas underneath. He produces a key and I hear my car chirp from inside.

Aristo hadn’t slept now for 45 hours and 59 minutes. He wasn’t keeping track of the seconds, because they were so fleeting. Despite being calm in the knowledge that minutes, hours and days were intrinsically as fleeting (being made up of these ‘seconds’,) he felt justified in recording every minute he had gone without sleep, every ‘sixty seconds’. He lay on his back, fingertips glowing and thigh jerking, and counted a few seconds. A few seconds later he counted a few more seconds, and then smiled to himself at how weird and uncountable ‘seconds’ were if you thought about them for too long, like when you repeat the word ‘ghost’ over and over again.

A beep sounded from his mobile phone and he leant over to tally, on a scrap piece of paper, another hour that he had spent awake. He was hoping that the repetitive counting of, or simple consideration of, ‘seconds’ would drift him into a peaceful sleep, but to no real avail. He had tried everything over the course of the day – he had imagined sheep with politicians’ heads on and counted them, registering them over a weirdly constructed purple-ish field. He had mentally gone through every letter of the alphabet and silently named correspondingly initialled characters from Star Wars. He had listened to ‘Bound 2’ fifteen times. He had imagined Floyd Mayweather in his gym and counted 500 of his punches.

He sipped a glass of water, mumbling ‘Jerome’s in the house’ under his breath. He imagined what it would be like to know everyone in Bristol. To actually walk around the city and have to have an interaction, however small or big, with every other human you encountered. To have to make eye-contact with people on the bus, to shake hands every two minutes, to not make eye-contact with a couple walking down Park Street. He imagined meeting a beautiful girl of Pakistani origin in a club, and visualised her impressed face as he said hello to every single other person in the club. He imagined her asking him how he knew so many people, and why everybody seemed to know him. At this point, he imagined leaning towards her slightly and explaining that he was a published author, creator of a book that was the first book to truly ‘go viral’. He imagined telling her ironically, in the knowledge that she was attracted to him, that it was ‘like Harry Potter for the Instagram generation.’

He fell asleep.

The wind is blowing hard outside. There is a storm brewing. I fear nights like these. Alone in my bed, I try in vain to sleep. But my heart beats loudly. My fingers are numb. The cold outside is creeping into my veins. I check the thermostat on my radiator again. Nothing has changed. Why would it? But I am feeling colder.

I get under the blanket. Counting sheep should help. The first one hops over the fence. The second follows. White and woolly, they look warm. It’s sunny on the farm. The third sheep saunters in through the open gate. It’s a lazy bum like me. I smile with my eyes closed. The fourth sheep stands in the corner. It’s different from the others. It’s a light grey, not white. There is something in its eyes – a solemn look. It has an aura of death. Why should it? There are no predators around. It won’t jump over the fence. Standing in the corner, it stares right at me. Jump, damn sheep! Several minutes pass, or perhaps just seconds? I wait, sleepless. I wait for the sheep to jump. A thunderclap jolts me from my reverie. The sheep heard it too. I can see them huddling on the field. The grey one is still in the corner. The sky seems darker than earlier. The lone sheep moans. I didn’t even know sheep could moan. Its eyes grow red. The fur seems darker than earlier, even shinier. And there is drool dripping from its mouth. It lets out another moan, a half-growl in fact. Its eyes are bloodshot now. It no longer looks solemn. Rage fills its eyes. A lean, hungry look appears on its face. I toss in my bed, sleep no longer seems possible. The other sheep cower in the field. They know they are hunted. There is a rap on my window. I startle, open my eyes and draw the blanket even tighter. I hear a growl outside. Was it the sheep from my imagination? It sounded much more real. I must know what is outside, or I won’t be able to close my eyes. And then I will deal with the creepy sheep in my head. I step off the bed and tiptoe towards the window. Another clap of thunder startles me and I nearly stumble. I draw the dark blue satin curtains aside. It is pitch black outside. Nothing to fear after all, I reassure myself. A pair of bloodshot eyes suddenly appears in the window. I start to scream, and the sleeplessness fades.

I haven’t been sleeping lately. I know that it’s all in my head, and that I’m gonna be just fine, just close your eyes and go to sleep. Who knows. Maybe tonight I’ll get some rest, somehow. I’m just… I’m scared. So very scared. When I’m awake, I can hear it. When I’m asleep, I’m vulnerable, and that’s when they strike. They’ve tried already. They took Lacey. She had been making fun of me, and that night, at 12:01, I heard a sort of buzzing sound from her room. It was so quiet, yet so sharp, that the 2 minutes I had to endure of the low-volume buzzing was pure hell. That morning, Lacey was dead. Next came Jim. He tried to tell me that nothing was wrong, that I just had to suck it up and go to sleep. But I couldn’t. Not after what happened to Lacey. That night, as I paced, awake as ever, Jim was taken. Just like Lacey, it started at 12:01, ended at 12:03. Except this time it was louder. I could hear every second of that torturous sound, as bright as day. Like nails on a chalkboard, yet much, much worse. Now, nobody in the house gets a lick of sleep. It’s incredible that we’ve survived this long. Now it’s only my cat and I. Our once lively abode had turned into a hellhouse. I was always the brave one, yet I’m terrified. The reason I’m so hopelessly, bone-chillingly terrified? The nails-on-chalkboard sound is back. And it’s louder, almost as if it’s right behind my eyes. And I’ve been so sleepy lately. Can barely keep my eyes open. I wonder… Maybe a little nap wouldn’t hurt…

I love it! Tons of suspence, and I love love love the metaphors that you use! Overall I think it was great!

Living in a house full of people who consistently tell you to do chores can be exhausting. Think of what it would be like having to “wake up” at four o’clock every morning and having to face dead people. Being a teenager, that obviously wasn’t my first choice of work. I was required to do this for the rest of my miserable teenage years, because it was something that was done in my family. I come home every night at eleven at night hoping to get sleep but, coming instead come home to the same routine of being cautious about every little thing that I do, or every little thing that makes noise in our house. I continuously feel like I’m being watched and haunted, which ends up leading to me having to stay up every night being frightened of coming across another dead person except this time in my bedroom. It is really frightening having to live with that fact in your head, especially as a teenager, so I ended up being sleepless. We all know that when a teenager doesn’t get enough sleep, it isn’t pleasant. I have multiple nervous breakdowns every day, and it ends up having me question where my life is headed. Every human can only survive the real world with a certain amount of sleep, and I wasn’t meeting that requirement. I am supposed to be getting nine hours of sleep every night, instead I was barely getting any. Sometimes I just wish that my family would understand my concerns, which they don’t. Therefor I must live the rest of my teenage years digging holes for dead people that will be getting more sleep than I have ever had, and ever will.

What do you guys think?

He lay down in his bed. Heavy and hurting, his tired eyes willed Jack to close them, to go to sleep, but he refused. After waking up night after night, covered in a layer of sweat, he had given up. For weeks now, memories of that night plagued his nightmares. Unable to bear to see that cold and emotionless face one more time, every night, while others were grateful for the break from their busy lives, he didn’t close his eyes in fear of what he would experience when he did. He knew he would have to go to sleep sometime or die from exhaustion. Why then, for some reason did the latter seem more appealing to him at this moment? He needed help, and he knew that. Worried about their friend’s health, his classmates urged him to see a doctor. Little did they know, what shy, little Jack was having trouble with was something no doctor would be able to solve. Unless that is, they were able to remove the memory of her altogether. Unconsciously, Jack drifted of too sleep, never meaning to, but enough to regret it just a few hours later.

I never know what it will be until is is. Tonight, my mind had chosen to be a great city. It was like I was dreaming in a tormenting way, you could call it a nightmare perhaps. I shut my eyes and try to claim my own body to sleep, but it chooses to go against my will. My eyes are shut, but my mind is wide awake. I see my future in red and black, and then I realize that my future isn’t long lived. So you see, when my insomnia hits, its ready for war. A war that you could never be prepared for. It hits you at once, all your thoughts. It sounds like a depressing tell but I can assure that there is a great. It allows me to think and see (even if I have my eyes shut). It causes me to think so incredibly, I sometimes feel wise. But then again its only a feeling, my mind has taught me so. I yell at myself and command that I sleep, and then my mind brings out the knives. They tell me sweet terrors,” You want to stop thinking, but you contradict yourself terribly. You say to yourself, sleep! Sleep! Don’t think! You have no clue at all.” They stop cutting me open for awhile but then I become anxious. “Tell me more.. maybe sleep can wait just for a little while,” I plead so cowardly. You aim your knives again and began to make your drawings. “Wishing yourself to sleep is a thought. Your thinking and trying to think of only sleep. But then it causes you think not to think. And then you think some more. Your thoughts never stop. ” Weeping through the night, I realize my own-self harm. And as my thoughts have already had enough with the useless knifes, they decide that maybe a weapon much bigger than that can do justice. It has become morning and still I haven’t been honored with any award. I have a look at myself in the mirror, at my own- self destruction. A small sob escapes my lip as my thoughts still choose to do me harm,” The war is over for now, but please do expect another war to come.”

Another sleepless night! Sam said to herself as she sighed. She could get up and watch music videos on YouTube. However that would be much like opening a Pandora’s Box, as she would end up watching something on various conspiracy theories, or some not so farfetched idea of an impending doom on the world. This would end in more anxiety, and possibly a night terror, then an anxiety attack and more insomnia.

Shelooks at the clock on her phone. 12:05 am. She carefully places the phone back on her bedside table then does her usual motion of turning in a full circle before trying to get comfortable. Shenever questioned why she had this habit, maybe it was one of those OCD things.

As she lie awake she tried to have day dreams. It was usually helpful for getting sleepy. She tried not to think about her ex Erin, who at that particular moment had already got her narcissistic supply fulfilled from Sam. Perhaps maybe she found it from someone else, as Sam starts to over think the situation she realizes what a fool she has been for allowing this to happen. What gives this narcissistic ex the right to just use and dispose of her when she has the supply fulfilled? Just to be recycled again? NO! It will never happen again. But Sam knew this was a lie. She knew that if Erin sent her any form of communication she would be like her ex’s lost puppy dog. She started to wonder of all the why’s, and how can she ever make this person love her again. Who was she fooling? Even if she ever came back, things wouldn’t be the same, they never have been. Those honeymoon days, once they are gone, they never come back. Everyone tells her the relationship is extremely toxic but no one could make Sam believe this.

Sam thinks back on all the sleepless nights over the past 3 years of their relationship/friendship and the fighting they would have, sometimes over the most trivial things. There were times when she would take too many sleeping pills sometimes 13 at a time, and it would be as though she took nothing at all. The only relief she would get would be if Erin would talk to her and let her know that everything between them would be ok and reassure her of the love they shared. This was relief that she would never see again. It’s been a year since their final fall, and Erin spent the last year feeding Sam little bread crumbs, keeping Sam’s heart on a string. Sam knew this was the part of her brain trying to make sense of the wreckage that telling her this. The part of her brain that doesn’t seem to want to work each time she checks her phone to find that Erin has texted her.

This is how every night was spent. 991 Days, and 16 hours spent thinking of this one person. Sam wondering what would it take? She would undergo shock therapy if she knew it would numb the pain, even measures as desperate as a lobotomy. Something, anything just to make her forget. Forget a past that has done nothing but devastate and destroy the sweet person she once was. Anything to give her a peaceful night’s sleep, without thoughts and dreams of Erin.

A deadly silence floats in the air whilst he lays in bed staring blankly at the crooked painting of his grandmother. Time goes by slowly and a pang of loneliness hits his chest. 5:30.Quietly he walks over the wooden floor to the window, avoiding strategically the old wooden panels that creaked so loudly.The painting’s eyes follows every move he makes. “You’ll have to look away now” he whispers,turning his back and lighting his cigarette. Peering out the window he reminisced the times he spent in the garden listening to the bewildering stories his grandma rold while she carefully gardened the thousand flowers of her garden. Now, only a few weeds and grass patches remained. Exhaling, a cloud of smoke ascends in the air, going somewhere only she knows.

As I lay awake, I could hear the sounds echoing through the halls. The soft tick tock of the grandfather clock in my living room. The creak of the foundation settling. With each new sound, my mind would create a story of horror. And so I didn’t sleep. It continued for days. Weeks. Months. Years. I don’t remember when it started. It’s always been like this. But how does it stop? Will it ever? I crawled in bed every night and got out in the mornings to go to my job at the little town diner. What I did between those times was boring and tedious. I sat with my eyes opened. The horrors would run through my mind. Each creak was a new murderer coming to take me. But nothing ever happened.

It wasn’t until that night at the diner that I thought my horrors were just that: mine. But an old customer, Mr. Rogers, was talking to his friends about his horrors. The same ones that plagued me. He spoke of eerie creaks in his house. Of the swift tick tock-ing of his own clock. His friends laughed and blew him off, but I knew. I heard the creaks and the ticks and the tocks. Each more horrifying than the next.

I waited until my shift was over to go talk to Mr. Rogers. As I spoke of my own fears, his startling blue eyes stared back at me, understanding. When it was closing time, and he rose to leave, he spoke but two words “Good night.” And I watched as the door of the diner closed behind him.

That night, the creaks were louder and the ticks and the tocks rung more frequently. As I lay down in my bed, I heard a soft thud. This wasn’t unusual. However, as the night went on, I couldn’t help the feeling of terror in my body. I had assumed that after talking to Mr. Rogers, these feelings would depart, but it seems I was wrong.

As I looked at the clock, it’s green numbers jumped out at me. 4:07. Suddenly, the numbers started going up. 4:08, 09, 10… and on they went. A thud sounded from the hallway where my bedroom was located. Heavy creaks made their way into the threshold of my room. The last thing I remember seeing is a pair of startling blue eyes, and then—

Sleepless Sunday

It’s been 15 minutes and I still stare at the arranged glow in the dark stars on my ceiling. It’s been 30 minutes since I took double the dosage of sleep medication. It’s been an hour since I realized I wanted to drown out this voice in my head that is telling me that I’m feeling something. I twist and slightly drift but an acute mind doesn’t lessen itself to minor deficiencies. I wanted to sleep direly, and that’s a fact. I wanted it to overcome me and drag and me into the cool blackness like a cliff dive that makes your small local news, and never resurface. It whirls me around and bends me in ways that god did not intend, hitting my cool climbs against the sharp rock until letting me rest my tired eyes finally on the ocean floor. My hair drifts along with the current, finally a rhythmic melody between me and my deep-sea partner in a minor key with a constant off beat change. I twist a few more times as I let the idea of this oceanic dive deepen in my mind until I drift off into the current one last time with a slight smile and lightly resting eyes.

The sound of heavy breathing fills my room, I can’t shake this worried feeling. It’s past 2 should my eyes not be locked tight where has my sleep gone? Why have I become so fearful, this paranoia is becoming the death of me. I shift and turn, flip my pillow, yet still the hand on the clock remains the same 3:02 time continues to pass slowly as my sanity drifts in the process. “He’s long gone” that’s what they say, “he won’t find you any more” shouldn’t I sleep comfortably knowing I’ll survive another night? This aching feeling the uncomfortably in my chest my mind forms scenarios of what might happen if I shut my eyes. 3:07 I stare at the time one more time, swear that it’s killing me more slowly than he would, maybe it’s better if he find, sleep will never come tonight.

Sleeping had always been her worst nightmare; something she dreaded to do.

She hated the feeling like she was wasting her time. There were so many useful things she could be doing, but, instead, her body asked for sleep. She didn’t get why; humans should be able to function without sleeping. Maybe if they didn’t spend so much unconscious, they would have invented time travel or discovered the secret of life.

That’s why she always stays up late; reading or writing, studying or watching TV. Anything. It’s like her own personal challenge. She defies the rules that say that a teenager should go to sleep at eleven and stays up after two in the morning. Just because she can. Just because she doesn’t want to waste her time in something as useless as sleep.

There was also the fact that her mind won’t shut up. Never. Most of the things in her brain are stories, waiting to be written and memories of time past. But, in a tiny corner of her mind lies some ideas she didn’t want to think about; depressing thoughts of loneliness and death. She usually manages to hide those thoughts just fine during the day, but at night, when her house is quite and everything was dark, those sneaky bastards managed to come out. They hunt her, telling her she’s not worth anything and that nobody will ever love her. And that’s when the sobs come in. She covers her mouth with her hand to silent them; after all, she’s supposed to be asleep. After what seems like hours (maybe it’s a couple of seconds, or minutes; who knows anymore) she finally drifts into unconsciousness, her head hurting and her stomach growling. The tears tire her and when she falls asleep, it’s because she cried herself to bed.

For her, sleeping means wasted moments, horrible thoughts, and bitter tears. Could you really blame her for not loving going to bed?

I awoke in a cold sweat, though many would hardly consider 30 minutes enough time to be “sleep” its the most I’ve gotten in days. My chest felt heavy and my breaths uneasy. I blindly and frantically searched my dresser for the tiny container. Knowing that all my pain would disappear in moments after taking another pill. I had taken them from a friends house. Her mother had back pain and got refills consistently. I would take a few periodically to avoid suspicion. I let out a small giggle when I finally found it. The bottle was almost empty, but I wasn’t going to let that fact take away any of the relief I felt. Besides I had planned to meet up with my friend this week and I’m sure I could grab a couple more. I took two more then I had been doing for the past few months. I knew by the amount of sleep I had been getting that I needed to up the dosage again. Not wanting to think of any of these things I closed my eyes and allowed the drugs to take over my conscientiousness. I hadn’t realized before falling back into my daze that the bottle was not put back into its hiding spot. When I awoke in the morning the bottle was gone and all my things were packed. I assume my mother heard me moving above her and she called up to me. Reluctantly I stumbled down the stairs still hazy from the drugs. I made it only half way down them when my mother and my friends mother peered up at me. I looked down at them, instantly noticing my mothers smudged makeup and puffy eyes. She was worried about me but mostly disappointed. My friends mother looked up at me like I was a waste of space. Without a word I went back upstairs to prepare for my trip, hoping that this time I’d be sent far away from here.

Tossing, turning, eyes fully open oh how I wish they would close and my mind would stop racing. Oh, its Him again! He must want time with me to tell me something important. But what it is I’m unsure. For three nights in a row it has been like this, yet what is the intended message. Oh! exhaustion has taken over, kids all day morning and night. What is it you want for me to know?

Overcome with a peace that surpasses all understanding, oh its clear now, vividly explained. “You have devoted too much time to the wrong things in which do not draw you close to me or can even add one metric, surely you can give me your time now.”

With eyes wide open and squared up in bed, I acknowledge His presence and begin to weep. “Oh, Abba Father thank you, your words now loud and clear.”

Finally, somber replaced my racing mind, my eyes fell shut like window shades, darkness took the place of the row of street lights outside my window.

The next day I awoke full of energy and decided to start my day off right with a little walk and talk with Jesus.

His eyes where wide open, so was his mind. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Cedric Vega was having trouble sleeping. It wasn’t the fact that he was scared or had something lingering around the darkest depths of his brain that kept him awake, even though he gets to go to crime scenes and look emptily and dead corpses on a daily basis. His job never affected his sleep schedule so it definitely couldn’t be the reason why his conscious was refusing to rest.

Perhaps it was now that he realized how empty his room was, the four white walls staring blankly at him, or the black leather furniture polished to perfection courtesy of his maid, the neat covers he was now laying in and that neat desk of his by the corner. He was a well-organized, calm and collected man so the idea of not being able to fall asleep after long exhausting hours at the police department was very rare to him, he’d usually fall asleep minutes after he put his head on his pillow.

However, after many moments of pointless tossing and turning did he realize it wasn’t because of his empty looking room, it was because of his empty heart. It all rushed into his brain like a painful burst of light, how he betrayed so easily, how he left the only thing he cared deeply for, how he no longer has anything worth sentimental value. He now comprehended how inhumane he was to betray his brothers for something as ignorant as the law.

His family lay suffering while he sleeps like a coward in his safe ground,

That’s why he couldn’t sleep.

His conscious was finally punishing him, making him feel remorse.

This is my first prompt (sorry if it is not good).

“Ugh,” Aly groaned as she sat on the ground. Becca rolled her eyes. She and four girls were stuck in a cave. It had been six hours and no one has rescued them, “I can’t sleep,” Victoria paced back and fourth. “I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, and I’m tired. I cannot sleep in this stupid cave.” Six hours ago, the girls were looking for a crystal for the Queen. It was called the Flower Crystal. The crystal contained protection for the kingdom. After hours looking for it, the girls found it in the deep cave. Unfortunately, their exit was blocked by a boulder. They did not know how to get out. If only they brought their rings. Their rings have powers that could transform them into superheroines. By now, they would have been outside of the cave. “I think we’re going to lose more oxygen soon,” Ella said. “If we don’t get out of here, we’re going to—” “Don’t say that!” Wendy covered her ears. “What time is it?” Aly asked. It was around night-time. The girls were frustrated. They did not want to disappoint the queen. They needed a plan.

This is the first writing I’ve done that anyone has seen. Let me know what you think. Thank you!

Night was my time. When my small feet crept and my toes searched for the quiet spots in the wood flooring. I was never used to such an unstructured time. I would sneak in the night looking for a destination. I knew ever creak in this house yet each night, the shadows felt new. They lived. But I knew they weren’t my enemy. They were creeping along to their own lost destinations. They searched for their own silent patches of wood. I could only dream of moving as silently as they do. That is if I could dream. Because to dream means to sleep. And to sleep means to miss out on my time.

I would find myself sitting at the kitchen table. Alone but for the shadows and a snack. I know I shouldn’t eat now. The moon is high and bright and the house is far too quiet. At least to me. Maybe I was wrong and it was pitch black. Maybe each bite I took echoed down the hall and into the bedrooms. I don’t know everything about my time but I know I feel safe.

I’m not sure when the fear of the dark left me. I couldn’t point to a year. I don’t why the fear of the dark left me my heart and decided to leave behind the sleeplessness.

During my time I was but a silent spirit visiting from another realm. I was alone but unafraid. I was plunged in shadow but I could see. The house’s silence reverberated in my ears life the thick buzzing of bees. I was young but this world was my ancient throne. There was no classwork. There was no bus to catch. There was just my time to spend till the call of sleep was deafening and I was summoned back down the hall. The wood stayed silent as my small feet found familiar holds. The bed was just as I remembered. I would lay and close my eyes thinking that maybe this was my dream.

Throughout my 21-year experience in the Army, countless days of waking early in the morning to do physical training, and enduring countless stressful situations; I have had many sleepless nights. There are nights where I don’t get any sleep at all and end up going to work the following day. I lay awake at night wondering what the next day holds for me. There are even times where I think about the many friends I have lost throughout my career serving the Army. My mind never takes a break. It is constantly working day and night. I have tried many remedies and tricks to fall asleep but nothing seems to work besides over the counter medication. I know taking sleep aids on a constant basis is not healthy and can damage your body. My last ditch effort to acquire some precious hours of sleep, may be retirement from the Army. However, I am unsure if this will resolve my issue.

Not sure how this is, but nevertheless here it is:

He had warned me. I was leaning against the marble kitchen bench and relishing the delicious aroma when he took the cup out of my hands and set it down. His gaze was intentful, almost father-like, as he nodded in disagreement. I was aware that it was drug, the boost of adrenaline that would reduce my hours but I was already addicted!

The doctors had warned me and my parents had been warning me since childhood and yet it never had any effect on me. I was pulled towards it and I couldn’t resist. Maybe it was due to the fact that I’d never experienced the after-effects.

But that day, Newt had woven some mysterious magic and I received the full blow of it’s poisonous wrath. —- The lights were dimmed and the entire apartment gave off an eerie buzz. Catherine was inside her shell, music whispering into her ears and humming her to dreamland. Next door Minho and Alec were “asleep” too. I could sense the gently tapping of keys echoing through the room, sure of the fact that Cather would give me a tough punishment for it, but for some reason I felt unusually productive. I was surrounded by a steady flow of ideas and could the project taking shape tonight, unstoppable even by the prospect of climbing under the soft sheets.

My phone gave an inaudible pop and I smiled as I read the text from Alec. He too, like me, wasn’t yet asleep. I wanted to cuddle in his strong arms, his muscular hands tangled into my hair. For a moment I felt like breaking the gender rule but I pulled my mind into focus. He would have to wait along with my uprising desires until I finished my work. —- It was well past midnight and well crossed over my regular bed time. it intrigued me to find that my body was fully co-operative with this and my eyes hadn’t gone bleary. I took this as a good luck signal and continued working. Alec and I were texting each other until he asked me to go to sleep because he, too, was uber tired. I had reluctantly bid his goodbye and was now back to work.

After what seemed like endless hours, I decided to conclude and retire for the night. The green watch light indicated that I had been relentlessly writing for two hours, a feat I had never achieved in my entire life. The good luck was paying off!

I checked up on social media, wishing Kal a happy birthday and texted Alec a final goodnight, shutting my phone off. With that I drank some water and then got into bed.

My brain had managed to power down, thoughts of the project I was working on clouding my other imagine, but my internal clock was still whizzing. I was still very awake!

I twisted and turned, stretched and unclenched but sleep had disappeared. I rolled up my sleeves, tied and untied my hair but I was still awake. Finally after two hours, verified by the bedside clock, I got up. My throat was dry and I could feel droplets of thick sweat forming on my forehead. I instantly checked for fever but my temperature was alarmingly normal.

I began to pace around the room, cooling off in front of a fan and taking gulps of water. I even took a trip to the ladies room when ultimately, I knew I’d had enough.

With the most softest steps, I made my way to Room 108; Alec’s room. I pushed the door and open and scrambled over toward Alec, taking care to avoid the scattered clothes and shoes. He looked so peaceful and before I could control it my hand flew out and started stroking his hair. His eyes opened at the touch of my skin and despite the odd circumstances he smiled at me.

He knew exactly why I had made this sudden trip and without waiting for my explanation said,

“Coffee. It’s all the coffee!”

I smiled back at him.

I knew for sure that the next time I wanted a sleepless night the only drug I needed would be the one Alec intoxicated me with.

Coffee had done me it’s good…

With the gentle rhythm of a heart beat palpating through my fingertips, I felt the drug draining itself casting a web of sleep, as it left, sending me far away…

The night buzzed into her room like bees to a Beyhive. Her shoulders twisted and turned in spastic motions, weighing her down with the tension of midnight-drawn silence, the stillness of moonlight, and the radiation of astronomy. She could feel the tides rise and fall in tune with her breathing – up and down, in and out – as if her head was an infinite seashell, breaking waves and fading into a frenzy of amorous plankton – fidgeting nervously about with the frustrations of a proper insomniac.

Juliette writhed on her back. There was clearly no escaping the surmounting poppies of a sleepless poppy field. Drained from the exhaust of mercilessly dragging her brain about the covers, she shifted her position once again so that this time, she lay on her opposite side with one leg under her blanket and the other sticking out – a bit of an Arnold Palmer of sleep positions. And yet, the salty air that wafted into her beachfront bungalow neither calmed nor soothed her; she could only think on the impending doom that awaited her the next day.

Shifting listlessly as the moonlight shown a spotlight into her bedroom, Juliette could not help but reflect on the past weekend’s events. The ride to Tijuana had been a painful and restless one, and the violent sting in her shoulders had only served as a cruel reminder of all of the fights and arguments that had escalated just a bit too quickly.

It’s not great, but it’s something.

Days would go by and she wouldn’t sleep at all. She would hear the heavy trucks roar along what would be an empty highway and then soon enough the first cars of people leaving for work and starting their day.

She’d sit and think about what kind of work people were leaving so early to get to, how car they would have to travel and what kind of lives they led.

Sometimes she would contemplate her own life as she watched the sun peak over the horizon and shine onto the valley below her. The trees would catch the first rays and light up one by one until it officially became another day.

Nothing had been accomplished. She had merely sat there watching clips on YouTube, some movies and television shows. Sometimes she would make it a game: “How many things can I watch tonight?” The more she thought about what she was doing the more melancholic she would become. Maybe she needed some structure. What did everyone else have that she didn’t? Why could they all go to sleep and she couldn’t?

“Tonight”, she thought, “Tonight, I’m going to do something about this. I’m going to go to bed at a normal time”

That night settled in for a proper night of rest.

“Yes. This seems normal”, she thought.

The clock ticked louder than usual. The trucks would roar past. Her breathing became the most important sound her ears had heard.

She saw the sun come over the horizon.

The clock stared at me; its pale face scowled in my direction, arms frozen in time. Moonlight crept beside my curtains and illuminated the side of the room on which the clock hung. The closet door stood open, alert, waiting. My window called to me, begged for my presence, and to the window I went. My feet felt fuzzy on the soft, yellow carpet beneath my bed. As I made my way to the window, ominous shapes of irascible creatures leered at me, and distrustful objects and electronics snickered in hushed whispers at their plots. I ventured towards the window though it seemed like I’d been roving for an infinity by the time I arrived. The clock continued to stare its evil stare as I stood in front of the window, and its ravenously sour intent spiked the hairs on my spine.

I lay in bed at night, tossing and turning trying to catch a hint of sleep. It seems nearly impossible. I roll over and look at the clock. It read 11:43 pm. I think to myself, I have to be up for the day in 7 hours and to make it through the long day I’ll need as much sleep as possible. I roll back over to face the wall, hoping the maybe the blank darkness will help me fall asleep. I stared into the darkness questioning how much longer I’d be awake. Laying like this began to hurt my shoulder so I rolled to my back and looked at the shadow of the ceiling fan spinning. This still wasn’t helping me fall asleep so I looked to see what time it was. It was already 1:11 am. I kept going through this same rotation from wall to ceiling fan to clock. I slowly drift in and out of sleep. Everything eventually goes completely black. The peaceful darkness turned into a bright white light and annoying buzzing sound. I soon realized that the bright light was the rising sun and the annoying buzzing was my alarm clock telling me that if I didn’t get out of bed now I would be late. I wondered how I got to this time. The last hour I read on the clock was 3:26 am. Now the clocking says 7:03 am. When tonight comes the cycle of a sleepless night will begin again.

Here I find myself, yet again staring at the blank ceiling. You’d expect that staring at an overflowing, white canvas would calm ones nerves and wash away any anxiety. At least enough to fall asleep. Alas, we all know that is rarely the case, since just because the eyes are open does not mean that they also see what is in front of them. In moments such as this, we are blind to the present and instead are bombarded with an unsavory mix of mostly unpleasant past experience and reality-altering potential scenarios that we try to plan for.

As our minds endure an unending stream of thoughts, our body feels the aftershock as it is, yet again, denied its well-deserved rest. We get completely enveloped in this rumination and end up truly believing that there is not way out, when in fact there is. It has been there all along, if only you let your eyes see what is in front of them. The calming view of seemingly unending white should always be a reminder that, whatever your thoughts, the present moment is calm. It is this present moment that you are trying your best to run away from, yet are desperately reaching for its return.

And know that when you close your eyes, the only thing that changes is the color.

(I just discovered this blog by searching for writing prompts and I have to say I am liking it so far! This is my first attempt at a 15 minute writing prompt. Would love any feedback so I can improve.)

The sheets feel like a straitjacket. I sigh loudly and turn over, trying again to get comfortable. Even though the fan is on, it feels stifling in my room. I shift again, and my pajama bottoms twist around my legs. I kick at the sheets in frustration, trying to untangle the pajamas and free myself from the 500 thread-count restraints at the same time. I’m still imprisoned. This waking nightmare of frustration and anger. And not at anything in particular other than my own body which won’t let me sleep. I stand up and pace the room for a few minutes. My pajamas settle down, and I gain a brief reprieve from the sheets of stone pressing down on me. I have to get up early and I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to be awake right now. The fan drones on, but it never seems to stir up enough air. I lay back down and pessimistically drag the sheet up to my chin. Flopping over on my side, I punch my pillow underneath my head and close my eyes. And wait. Nothing. Nothing but a growing sense of anger at this ridiculous situation. I’m trapped. Denied the release of sleep. Sitting up, I pound at my pillow in an attempt to give my frustration the release it demands. But it ultimately backfires. The exertion causes my heart rate to go up, my blood to course faster, and my breathing to increase. I’m more awake now than I was minutes before. Sighing, I prop up my pillow and grab the book on my nightstand. Switching on the lamp, I open the book and start reading, trying to calm my mind and body into a state of restfulness. After 10 minutes I begin to feel sleep’s gentle pull. I switch off the lamp, pull the sheets back up to my chin, lay down on my side, and close my eyes…

The sheets feel like a straitjacket.

I lie awake thinking. That’s the worst thing I could be doing at 3 in the morning, but it seems like the only thing I can do. My body is tired, my mind is on full blast. I think about my parents back in San Francisco. I think about David, who is probably sleeping right next to her. I think about my dog, Max, who is sound asleep at my feet. The morning sun peaks through the window and I didn’t get any sleep again tonight. My alarm clock blares, I don’t know why I even have that thing anymore. Sleepless. I’m pretty sure I should just change my name to that.

I’ve been sleepless since day one. i haven’t been able to sleep through the night. The nightmares won’t allow me to sleep. The dreams are terrifying, the hunt me as I wake abruptly. Then everything goes black!

Exhaustion carried her body into wanting to sleep, but worrying kept her mind awake. What felt like hours turned into merely minutes. With working 12 hours a day with a 30 minute break somewhere in the shift, there’s no wonder why she’s tired. Every night is a stressful event to fall asleep, no matter how exhausted she was. She lays in bed without movement thinking about the world and her decisions that made her who she is today. Regret and satisfaction filled her head. She tried to forget what she was thinking, but it’s hard to after everything she was put through. Soon exhaustion hit her and what felt like an endless sleep took over her body.

As I lay here in my bed staring up at the ceiling the clock hits midnight. the TV is going in the background i shift and roll over to the tv nothing good is on. I flip threw the channels I found a good a show. Its that 70s show I roll back over and listen to the show in the background. I check the time again its 12:10 I start to yawn. Finally I pull the blankets up and curl up in a ball slowly drift to sleep.

I greet my insomnia like a well acquainted lover. I feel nothing more than defeated acceptance as we both go through the same routine like every night. I try to sleep, but my mind cannot be willed into silence. Tonight, my insomnia decided to greet me with a nice dose of existential crisis.

You know you’re going to die one day. Yeah no duh. Hahaha. Jokes on you. I dealt with that ages ago. (feeling of panic intensifies)

What exactly are you doing with your life? I don’t know. But please stop.

Is this all there really is? Wake up, eat, go to work, come home and sleep? For the next, probably, sixty years? …

Why haven’t you written that novel yet? …you know why.

It was the same reason, why I couldn’t sleep. There was a sense of restlessness that surrounded me, and seeped into my bones. The urge to get up and just… Do something. Anything. All to escape the monotony of life.

I felt as though I was one of those people who died at 22, but buried at 80. What had my life become? What would my previous self think of me now?

Or maybe it was something else that plagues you. Lets not go there tonight. I try beg with myself.

I don’t like seeing people sleep. They look like they’re dead. It such an intimate activity too. We’re all vulnerable when we sleep. Except ninjas.

My chin slipped down my arm until the counter top gave me a cold shock. I sat up straight and rested my elbows on the reflective surface. “Here ya go.” said the bartender gingerly. I smiled keeping my eyes closed and felt for the drink to push it back. “I’m nineteen.” The man chuckled. “It’s coffee.” Slowly I blinked into the early morning light filtering through the east window then down to the glass. I peered at the chocolate infused frappe then to the stranger who was wiping down the counter. “How do you know my order?” I asked. “You and your boyfriend come in every morning at nine.” he said a smile turning the corners of his lips. My heart skipped and responding heat flushed my cheeks. “He’s not my boyfriend.” I replied. “Good to know.” he winked then moved down the grey counter to meet another customer. I watched the peppy man. He worked quick with his hands, pristine teeth displayed in a laugh or smile while he interacted with the other person. Slowly my eyelids sank down disrupting my view. “You pull an allnighter too?” asked the bartender his voice wafting over music. I forced my eyes open and they met bright sapphires. “Yeah, you worked all night?” “Yes Sir.” he nodded leaning over the counter, Cheshire grin inches from me. I felt a telltale blush rise to my cheeks again tinting the porclain skin scarlet. The mocha gave me a distraction from the attentive and attractive man. “So what kept you up?” he questioned calling for my attention again. “Homework. I’m taking summer classes.” I told him. Quickly I checked my phone to see if Jace was on his way. “What do- ” the bartender paused looking to the next customer and tossed the towel over his shoulder. “Let’s continue this later, what’s your name?” “Brandon.” I said wondering if I was being quick to assume where he was going. “Hi Brandon, I’m Jack.” he shot me another electric smile. “What do you say we meet at the paper lantern at seven tonight?” My heart lept into my throat stealing my ability to speak but I nodded, agreeing to the offer. I slid down from the counter needing to remember how to breathe the bar coffee shop suddenly….

Shaking her head to clear the fog she thought about her day. It was Tuesday wasn’t it? She wasn’t quite sure anymore. The days had begun to blend into one. How long had it been since she had had more than a few hours of sleep two weeks, three? Between her work schedule, the kids and her eighty-year-old mother with dementia, she wasn’t sure how long it had been since she had slept all night, or even gone to bed at a decent time for that matter. Judy longed for time to herself. A time when she wasn’t so exhausted that all she would do with that time was sleep. She wanted time to peruse her dreams. Dreams? It seems as though that train has long left the station. After twenty-eight years of marriage someone who only cared about what he could get from others, manipulation and lies, she was finally free OR was she?

One, two, three, four, five……….wait. What? I swear there were seven cracks in the ceiling last night and the night before that and well, all the nights before that. No I’m not an insomniac. It is just that, sleep and I are not really the best of friends. But my life had always been like this, the one thing that I desperately needed was the one thing i could not have. I had tired myself to the verge of unconsciousness hoping to fall asleep as soon as i hit the bed. But it seems like all my efforts were in vain, again. My mind began to wander to the events occurred during the day. That was my night routine. Recreating the events in my head according to my satisfaction. Sometimes I just forget what really had happened and my mind welcomes the thought of what i wanted to happen. Like today, I had not been pushed against the lockers with a swift kick to my stomach during recess but I was sitting in the ground with my best friend having my favourite burger. My thoughts were running, creating a story on their own accord, exceeding the speed limit when suddenly…. *triiiiing* My eyes snapped open. My hand reached for my hea, it was feeling a bit dizzy. I turned to my right and took in the drool wetting my pillow. Had I been asleep?

The man stood on the front porch steps, glancing wild-eyed around the porch. I kept repeating it but it was as if his ears were sealed off .The man takes a step forward, almost tripping over the salad bowl lying there. I walk hastily over to him to take his arm and the man shrugs me off, as if the mere thought of me helping him is repulsive. In that very moment, it was just me, him and the moths circling the decapitated lamp across the street. The silence was deafening and comforting at the same time. It seemed wrong to refer to the man as my grandfather because of how distant he was from me. A stranger may have been better company. Family for me was not a word that brought comfort and joy to my heart but rather one that equals disdain and unpleasantness. I said it again but he’s walking away. I don’t attempt to follow the man. I take the path opposite and aimlessly hop like a wild rabbit seeking shelter. It would have always ended like this. Him talking the path opposite to mine. It was foolish of me to think otherwise.

This is my first, I don’t have any experience but I’m very interested to try.

I hear the voices getting louder. They’ve become the people I talk to for they are the ones I can’t avoid. My anxieties, my dreams, my memories. All the subjects that the calm darkness wants to share.

No matter how much I try to escape, I keep coming back to myself, with these conversations I don’t even ever dream of talking about with other people. I love the distractions, I am not ashamed, but if I really am not, I would be sound asleep right now. It isn’t that I hate talking about it, it’s that I don’t have anything profound to say. How it makes me uncomfortable, I tell you. The appearance of lacking intelligence and emotions embarrasses me.

Given the miracle of being awake every morning, I’d rather be asleep. But I cannot, as the weight of my eyes can’t outweigh the thoughts in my head.

Really, this is your first? It’s amazing! I’m surprised you didn’t have any experience. I applaud you.

Thank you very much. What a wonderful response. You just made my day.

You’re welcome, sir. From one author to another.

I find myself tossing and turning, never ceasing to think. My mind runs like a child drugged with adrenaline, and my heart pumps like my body had actually been through that marathon. I can feel it – that creeping feeling of anxiety and guilt that seems only to appear at night. Shivers slither their way up my spine, and I bury myself in the protection and warmth of the covers, face deep in the pillows. In the dark, I can see the shadows. Shadows of chairs, shelves, my desk – somehow they came to become threatening. Even Teddy, the stuffed bear on my windowsill, was transformed into a horrible monster that would try to kill me whilst I sleep. Underneath the bed was worse – shadows that could solidify and take me with them. What’s worse than fearing something you can see? Something you wouldn’t expect. These were the irrational fears that would keep me up at night. The bedsprings creak in the old mattress as I try to adjust to a comfortable position. When I was younger, that sound would be a lullaby. My parents would sleep next to me, and I’d know that there were other people making such noise beside me. And if they weren’t making that odd errr sound, they’d protect me. Now, I live alone in a lonely apartment – without Mommy and Daddy to keep away the night terrors. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget everything I had thought about, and drift to bed.

*This is my account, sorry about the guest submission.

I find myself tossing and turning, never ceasing to think. My mind runs like a child drugged with adrenaline, and my heart pumps like my body had actually been through that marathon. I can feel it – that creeping feeling of anxiety and guilt that seems only to appear at night. Shivers slither their way up my spine, and I bury myself in the protection and warmth of the covers, face deep in the pillows.

In the dark, I can see the shadows. Shadows of chairs, shelves, my desk – somehow they came to become threatening. Even Teddy, the stuffed bear on my windowsill, was transformed into a horrible monster that would try to kill me whilst I sleep. Underneath the bed was worse – shadows that could solidify and take me with them. What’s worse than fearing something you can see? Something you wouldn’t expect. These were the irrational fears that would keep me up at night.

The bedsprings creak in the old mattress as I try to adjust to a comfortable position. When I was younger, that sound would be a lullaby. My parents would sleep next to me, and I’d know that there were other people making such noise beside me. And if they weren’t making that odd errr sound, they’d protect me. Now, I live alone in a lonely apartment – without Mommy and Daddy to keep away the night terrors.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget everything I had thought about, and drift to bed.

Up again. She hadn’t been able to get a full night’s sleep in over a month. Every night she would lie awake and think back about her time with Arren. It felt so strange, to lay in bed without him. Every time she moved, she was reminded that he wasn’t lying next to her anymore. She spent countless hours thinking about what she could have done differently. Could she have just had a baby with him so that he would be happy? He had given her the world. Emotionally and financially. But he wanted a baby. He wanted to be a father. And she just didn’t have the same dreams.

She got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. As she grabbed the glass from the cabinet she glanced over at the table. That’s where her and Arren had their last conversation. He told her he had to leave. They wanted different things. And he told her that even though he loved her, it just wasn’t enough. They both sat and cried for hours. But in the end, it didn’t change anything.

As she put her glass in the sink she decided to go for a drive. She had to be at work in four hours, but she clearly wasn’t going to be getting any sleep anyways. And going for drives always helped to relax her. As she opened the garage door and put the car in reverse she was yet again flooded with memories. Her and Arren used to take drives all the time. Some days they would go on short drives around the neighborhood. And other days they would just drive for hours, with no particular destination in mind.

As she drove, she started questioning herself again. Had she made the right decision? She was only twenty-five. Maybe in a couple years she would want kids. Would she look back and regret letting him walk away? How would she feel when some other woman gave him children?

Before she knew it, she was back home in her driveway. Only an hour had passed. She still had two more hours to kill before she needed to start getting ready for work. She knew there was no point in lying down. However, she had run out of ideas. And eventually she was going to have to get used to sleeping alone. No better time to start than now. So she crawled into bed and pulled the covers up. She decided to see if there was anything on tv. She knew there would be plenty of infomercials that could put her to sleep. As she began watching an infomercial about a particular knife that was promised to be the next big thing, she felt herself drift off.

The day had been long and stretched. The move itself had been a breeze. Stella had walked the dog to get change and maybe a coffee. As it turned out, change for the meters was entirely unnecessary, as the movers would be double parked, and coffee proved unfindable. It wasn’t that she could not find coffee, it was that she was with the dog, the peppy and robust, still recovering wire-haired hound who was determined to let it be know to all passerby (canine and otherwise) that she was back. A mysterious run-in with a car a three months prior had left the creature with a slightly atrophied hind leg and bionic pelvic binding. She barked at men in suits, she barked at the miniature humans who stomped their feet very near to her snout and overwhelmingly sensitive ears. It was the door slammers downstairs and the skateboarders clattering along the sidewalk that really did it. At night she whined to be let on the bed, so used was she to the human elevator service of arms.

Somehow Ash had packed the bulk of the loft in the wee small hours of the morning. Skeletons of futons and the dining room set were gathered in tidy piles and their third-floor walk-up had turned into a vault of itemized bins. The mother arrived, immediately followed by the movers. They caravanned up the street to the tower, an automatic elevation in financial and social real estate to be nested into. Then there were the installations of the basics: tech had so advanced since her girlhood, and she was hardly to be considered old, that lights, water, air, and home had seemingly been constructed around her in moments.

Now she was in a new living room, half-full of their new life together. Her eyes strained in disbelief and lack of sleep, momentum of the move itself and the suddenly heightened pace of life feeding her fuel of adrenaline.

Dinner. Wine. A shower. It was half past twelve when she lulled to sleep, her eyes burning, her body exhausted, muscles sensitive and expectantly taught. The skyscrapers in the distance were a scattered array of left-on floors. She tossed and turned, watching Orion’s Belt drift upward as the hours passed, out of her line of sight. She watched for fingerprint sized human figures to flicker across the empty lit-up rooms in the distance. There were none. Sleep. She longed for it with pain and urgency, which also kept her thrashing between the soft sheets and the comforter. Why are all those lights on? she wanted to know. Aircraft warnings blinked red and white. The city was a goddamned Christmas tree. She could not tell if she was dreaming or hallucinating. The rouge smear upon the horizon beyond the cityscape bled upward as the sun began to rise and erase the night. Had she slept at all?

The night was dark and cold. And the three teenagers were getting restless. The man had been gone for four hours and it was their first chance of escaping in four weeks. He had kept them locked in a cave underground and they hadn’t slept. They had been too busy protecting each other and fending off the wild wolves that the man puts into the cave every other night. They had suffered terrible scratches and bites. They hadn’t eaten or slept in a month. And to add onto it all, they were being tortured over and over again every day. The boy wanted to be able to protect the two young girls when the man came back. He was supposed to be strong and be a hero. But he was hardly able to walk without falling. The younger of the two girls was in very bad shape, with highly infected bites and bone showing through her pale skin. The other girl wasn’t as bad off as the younger, but she was no super-human. None of them were strong enough to fight off another rabid wolf alone. And none of them had the brain power to figure out an escape plan.

The man rotated his victims every day and tortured them in a separate chamber. He had been doing this for a long time and he knew how to make the hits hurt without killing. He knew how to cause immense pain and not cause internal bleeding. He knew how to make you suffer without feeling the slightest bit of sorrow. He knew how to not kill you until he was ready to watch you die. He considered himself a hero, because he wasn’t killing them right away. He walked from his home into the dark forest through snow and wind. He unlocked the cave gave and jerked it open. He walked into the small space and pointed to the young boy, “You.”

Shoulders tense, in the dark, a storm inside. She longs for quiet, for calm, for nothingness. The strange squeal of the pipes echo’s through the house. She decides that she must call the next morning and get someone out to check why they’re making such a hideous noise. The warm dark space is not a comfort for her. Her thoughts jump, thinking of different events that day, that week, conversations that she should have had, what she could have done to make strides towards her ultimate goals. As she lies, tense. A tremendous longing is in her, she’s not sure for what. Peace, expression, love? And she lies there, alone, with the noise in her head. Listening to the pipes wail. Tomorrow everything will be better, all that she could have done today, she will do tomorrow.

Lying awake on my side of the bed, I think of all the possibilities that could unfold on my wedding night, just like I’ve done every hour for the past week since the proposal.

We could run in together, both swept up in the giddy frenzy of what is expected by all the guests to come, a blush creeping up our necks and filling our cheeks with the rosy color we laughed about when we first met on that snowy day outside the office. Maybe we aren’t giddy at all—maybe we’re both feeling playful, wild, and a little bit sexy, ready to tear at each other’s clothing and consummate our marriage like animals.

Maybe he’ll throw me down on the bed and ravage me, push my stomach against the wall and have me for his own, force me down on him until he’s ripe with anticipation and ready to burst and I have no choice but to swallow or face the consequences. It’s not that I like these nights, but at least he’s enjoying himself. At least it’s only sex. At least it’s better than when he has a few drinks too many and I become his personal punching bag, a target for the silverware and fine china his rich father can afford to buy him—with the money from the bank account he used to bribe the jury on the last domestic case he was involved in.

If I shut up, say all the right things, and make sure to do everything he asks, my wedding night could be all I ever dreamed of. It’s already planned that I have the Tiffany blue color scheme and flower arrangements I’d wished for since I was a young boy playing dress up in the attic, now all I needed was my perfect night. All I needed was to hold my tongue and do what was commanded of me and I’d have the perfect end to the perfect wedding.

And after that, the perfect honeymoon and the perfect life with my perfect husband in our perfect house with our perfect knives and our perfect porcelain plates and cups and teapots and his perfectly powerful arms and hands and fingers…

The list goes on and on—every possible scenario for every night of the rest of my life. All sleepless. All scared. All right next to him.

John stared at the clock until his eyes ached- he couldn’t fall asleep if he tried- the stupid ass kicker turbo coffee he had drunk 2 nights ago had kept him awake for, yep, 2 days. THIS was the damn third. “i’m gonna kill Steve…” He muttered. “He thinks he’ll be able to sell that shit to the public? he’ll sooner get lynched by angry customers.” “Then they’ll kill him for you.” Alan muttered beside him. Alan had also been victim to the horrendous coffee.” “Hmm,” John responded. “We could sue him.” “Splendid idea.” “Yeah? I’ll contact a court tomorrow and we what we can do.” Alan did’t respond. Must’ve gone to sleep. John glanced at the clock and waited, watching the minutes tick. There was a long stretch of silence that felt so peaceful, John could almost hear he sounds of the ticking clock fade away into the distance as he got lost in a wonderful fantasy of sueing steve, and enjoying the satisfaction gained after 3 nights of complete hell. “Has it been 3am yet?” Alan spoke beside him, quite suddenly. . Alan slept facing away from the clock, his eyes closed shut tightly- but his voice sounded awake as ever. He wasn’t fooling anyone. John looked at the clock gain. ‘No,” he said. “15 more minutes.” He heard Alan curse something vile under his breath. “What was that?” John said, snickering. “Bloody piss-flaps? Never heard that one.” Alan was silent for awhile. John could tell his brow was creased with worry. “We won’t make it to the audition at this rate.” John shrugged. “If I remember, it was YOU who decided to conveniently forget the alarm clock.” “Oh shut up.” Alan muttered. There was silence between the two for a couple of minutes. John turned over on his side.”Say, Alan?” “Yeah?” “You remember the pretty girl that was there at last week’s audition?” “The brunette in the pink skirt?” “Yeah.” “What about er?” “She was…. Swell mann….. I hope she’s there next time.” “John?” “Yeah?” “Shut up.” Alan turned over again and started to mentally count, while john played with the jack-in-the-box necklace that hung around his neck. All the while the clock ticked louder than ever. “Fuck this,” Alan said, now sitting up completely. “Let’s get some coffee.”

There are days in my life where sleeping was the toughest job I have to do. Whenever I close my eyes the unanswerable questions poke my eyes for the answer. I just lie down and think for the answers. So, at least tomorrow I can sleep. But my questions was never answered, because I was too young to understand the hypocrisy in human philosophy. Now I am young enough to understand it but not strong enough to handle it. I wish one day will come where I can sleep with peace, far from the hypocrisy. Until that day I have to compromise my questions, to sleep.

How do you get someone like her off of your mind… how do you just tell yourself to stop? It’s not like you didn’t want to… you would love to just close your eyes and get a few hours of rest but…when you closed your eyes her figure would appear. She’d be lying next to you. Chest to chest. Toe to toe. Hip to hip… soul to soul.

It was no use.

She was engraved in your mind, engraved in your heart as the first person to have control over you like this. Everything you thought about was her.

She met you at the library earlier that day and you thought your heart would be jump out of your chest, it was beating so hard! She needed your help writing her paper but you could barely focus on the books or your lap top with her so close. All you could think of was how beautiful she looked in that pink sweater, and how she smelt like Vanilla.

And you felt like such a clutz, you had dropped your pencils and she helped you pick them up but her hand brushed against yours for a second too long and your almost melted onto the floor. You felt so stupid you started to apologize for dropping the pencils but she just told you it was okay…

But the more she talked the more you watched her lips. And the more you watched her lips the more you thought of how soft her lip probably were. They probably felt like the inside of a rose and she probably tasted like the most expensive, most delicious, most illegal wine known to man kind. You wanted to know how they would feel pressed against yours. And you wanted to know if she would be okay with- with kissing another girl. Would she push you away in disgust or would she pull you closer…

How do you sleep with all that on your mind?

i’ve become one with the moon, depending on the stars to offer their light. Warming myself up under the beautiful night sky. I enjoy my dreams very much, I hope they don’t mis understand. I’ve gotten this attachment with the big round fella up top. He craves my attention, My company. I’ve come to realize we are much a like after all, both beautiful, untouched, strong and misunderstood.

His legs felt like sandbags slowly wearing him down with every step he took. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to feel. It had become so easy to distance himself well…from himself. His breath grew soft and shallow. His eyes looked like rose stained glass and as he began to lift his head the sudden wave of exhaustion made him stumble slightly to the left. He quickly grabbed the stairs and shook his head. Gazing at his king sized mattress he began drifting towards it. The weight of his feet fading as he began to slip off one shoe and then the next. Unbuttoning his shirt he melted gently onto his bed.

Before the enteral realm of darkness overtook him an intense vibration from his right pocket jerked him back to reality.

“Detective Warren, its Jami there’s been an emergency update on the case. Get to Fourth Lincoln street asap”.

“Got it” he replied as he ran his hands over his face and with a exaggerated sigh he opened the rustic wood stained drawer and grabbed his badge.

She angrily clutched the sheets tightly in her fists, squeezing her eyes shut. She wanted nothing else to let sleep sweep through her, the alluring deity with a mind of its own that brought the greatest blessing she could receive. She softened her grip on the sheets and let her eyes relax. She let a hesitant breath go in and out. In and out. In and out. Her breathing got slower. Several minutes passed. Her body was motionless. Her hair was splayed across the pillow, laying haphazardly across her cheek. She didn’t move it away. To actively move was to be awake, and she was almost sure that she was not awake. She slowly cracked her eyes open, hoping desperately to be in the midst of a haunting dream, picturesque and dangerous, but an adventure nonetheless. Her eyes were greeted by darkness, and she was immediately disappointed by the dark shadows on the wall, a tell tale sign that she was as awake as ever. She felt the tiny prick of tears welling up in her eyes. She fought this battle every night, and she lost more often than not. She didn’t have the strength to keep fighting. To fight the midnight thoughts that flew around her head, keeping her awake well into the early hours of the next day. Her body was exhausted- trembling and fatigued, but her mind was spinning around just as fast as always, tormenting her awake. Tears began to slide down her cheeks and she curled into a ball, making herself as small as possible. She was crying. And that’s how sleep finally found her, with dried tears on her cheeks. It spun its sweet spell over her, and she finally drifted into peace.

He wished he had grown to appreciate sleep, despite the fact that he didn’t need it. Even well past his tax paying years, he had turned a blind eye towards it. Insomnia did that to you, he figured. Besides, he had no desire to long for something he couldn’t have. Envy, it did things to him. The case of Allison Melzen left him taking late night trips to the coffee shop downtown- even with his insomnia. The girl felt no fear to the monsters assigned to her case, forcing him to take one her case. He had no wish to get his hands dirty, preferring to sift through files. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. When he’d arrived on the job, he could see why she had laughed at the monsters under her bed. With the screams downstairs, to the week of alcoholic abuse, she already had monsters of her own. Each day, he found himself guarding her against him, if it meant she would be happy.

My rating for myself: 1/10

SLEEPLESS BY LESLIE Oh my god ! Why can’t I sleep? Two melatonin, two TYLONAL PM and a glass of wine. I’ll be lucky not to O.D. Ok if I fall asleep in feefteen minutes I’ll get six hours. Perfect. I dont know why we dont go to SIX FLAGS any more. I used to love those parks as a kid. We should take the girls there. Dam ! I did it again. I let my mind wonder. Ok Leslie concentrate. The room is nice and cool and it’s nearly pitch black in here. Ok right side first. Breath, breath, breath. Inhale, exhale, inhale….I do like that movie. WAITING TO EXHALE. I usually like movies with primarily black casts. I really like Tyler Perry. I love the message and the music. Why am I thinking about this ? Who cares No one can hear your thoughts. Ok inhale, exhale, in our. You have got to be kidding me. I have to pee. Where is the toilet paper. Why can’t anyone put another roll on the dam holder? If I turn on the light I’ll never get to sleep. Oh well. Drip dry. Ok If I get four hours I’ll be fine. Sleep. Breath. In, out in and dam its got in here. Well there goes the nightgown . Oh much better. I am cozy. Breath, inhale. What the heck? Is this a chip? CRUMBS!!! I HATE CRUMBS. I can’t believe he ate chips in bed. I just washed the sheets. Today! He is so rude. He doesn’t respect me at all. He used to be so sweet. I think he’s going through a mid-life crisis. I hope he knows how much I appreciate him. I know he’s under a lot of stress. And yet there he is. Sound asleep and i bet he won’t even have to get up to pee. Pee, oh dam I have to go again. I have to shake out these chips anyway. Ok. two hours . Inhale, exhale, in, out. BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. Babe can’t you hear the alarm? Why did you set the clock for four a.m.? You dont have to get up for an hour. Snooze? Are you seriously going to press snooze? I give up. ” Enjoy your sleep I’m going to make coffee “. “Honey go back to bed”. “What time is it?” ” It’s only six”. ” I have to get the girls ready for school”. “You must need sleep. School is out for the summer. Starting today”. Breath, breath, breath.

Sighing, I fell into the deliciously embracing blue folds. Wriggling my head into the perfect position on my fluffy plaid pillow, I promptly shut my eyes, a slight smile on my face as I waited for sleep to take me. I passively wondered whether I’d have any interesting dreams that night. I loved a good dream, it made me feel like I still had some creativity left in me. Creativity, that is exactly what my boss said I’m lacking in my project during our meeting today. I just need to dream to get my creativity back, but to dream I need to sleep. Resolved, I attempted to shut my mind from any more intrusive thoughts attacking my attempts at sleep. But they were persistent; streams of thoughts swirled into a writhing mass of intersecting worries and self-criticisms. Where will I go in a month, where will I live after this short internship, knowing my boss’s disappointment concerning my lack of progress prophesied a lack of the one good reference I so desperately needed to land future jobs. My partner wasn’t having it, he was sick of my stagnation in life. I parried thoughts on my disintegrating relationship with my boyfriend, my family’s disappointment on what little I had to show for after attaining my college degree, on and on. A full onslaught of thoughts was determined to disallow me my peaceful rest. I turned to face the other side of my stubby foam-mattress bed. Now I will be able to sleep. I just needed a change of perspective. It was just that pesky light on the microwave that were disturbing my efforts to slumber. Here we go. Come to me, O sleep… What felt like an hour of suppressing this tangle of worries later, I decided I just needed to stretch a bit before bed. I’d read previously that stretching before bed helps to relax the muscles and allows you to drift off more comfortably and easily. If only there were a way to stretch the mind’s eye… A brief yoga session in the middle of my tiny dorm room and I was ready to hop into what seemed like a feast to the overworked and overanxious brain. A good long night’s rest, at last! I thought about sheep and how it was funny how that helped people. I good naturedly tried it myself. Sheep, my co-worker was talking about sheep for some reason today. Why would she be discussing sheep of all things… sheep… She was vegetarian! That’s it. She was discussing the innocence of the lamb. Innocence. Puh. Lost that a long time ago. If only I’d remained celibate instead of giving myself all to my first boyfriend, changing myself to suit his fancy, only for him to leave me in the dust when he landed a prestigious job in a consulting firm. And when I needed him most… that bastard. Wait, how did I get here, I’m supposed to be sleeping peacefully. Okay, back to the sheep. Screw the sheep! Sheep don’t help, I think that thing about counting sheep is an old wives’ tale. It means nothing, it does nothing… Hey weren’t those my father’s exact words when I told him the purpose of my internship? My parents never supported me. That’s why I’m in such a shitty situation. No support, no love. Just out here on my own. I better start taking notes on how the homeless eke out a way to survive on the streets. It’s always been my number one fear. Well, up there at least, after jellyfish. Those alien tentacles just floating through space and time, piercing you when you least expect it.. So pretty at first glance but once you get too close… My whole life is a jellyfish. Tried to do too much coming from too little and it caught up to me. No support system, no money. I’m definitely stinging now. Where is that light at the end of the tunnel they always tell you about? I see no light. Light, where are you… light… I see the light… What? It’s light in here now. It’s light out! I can see the light! Wait, it’s morning!? Oh my goodness I have to be at work in four hours. Another sleepless night encumbered by my restless worries… My relationship with my boss certainly isn’t going to get any better. I can’t function without sleep, but I can’t sleep so that I can function.

Camomile tea, classical music, comfortable blankets. It felt as if I’d tried it all but, no matter how hard I tried, sleep just would not come. The vivid, red glare of the the clock’s screen, stared deep into my soul. Black numbers questioning my sanity, almost impressed by my ability to stay conscious. Rolling over, I sighed deeply, forcing my eyes shut. If only I could do the same to my brain. Thoughts continued to race around my head, zooming at speeds far faster than any car could hope to achieve. I’d long ago deemed three in the morning, my existential hour. Perhaps the inky sky, complete with sliver stars shining brighter than the world’s most precious jewels, forced me to compare the underwhelming dullness of my own life to the infinite beauty of the universe. Or maybe it wasn’t the bright stars but, the glowing screen of my phone. The cage of social obligation forcing me to wonder which of my “friends” were doing things far more interesting than I could comprehend. The dazzling lives of celebrities challenging my hope for an ordinary yet, content existence. All of these ideas seemed to link to one daunting, unavoidable prospect. The universe was bigger than anyone could ever know. Life was a simple attempt to see as much of our world as possible.

Sleep that elusive stranger. Hard to find no matter how much I try. Soul yearns to catch a glimpse of his luxurious arrival, but Alas! seemingly never to be. Sleep you make me wait, wait forever more. Sounds of the night keeping me company on a thousand days or more. Sleep, please take me with you on a journey beyond this confined space. Allow me please, to rest my tired eyes even for a brief moment in time. Sleep, I stay up waiting for you through the long, dull waking hours until it is morning again, when it is time for me to get up and go.

I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! Oh the misery! Undying marks of sleeplessness under my eyes tingle when I rub them. They love telling me, “Oh just sleep! It’s easy!” But is it? Is it really that easy? Is it really as hard as I make it out to be? Is it them or is it me? Shadows laugh when I turn off the lights, all I want is silence! They have conversations when they think I cant hear, “You know, she’ll go mad after a few more days.” I won’t stand for it! I will not go crazy! I am not crazy! Even if it is torture to stay awake I owe them thanks for keeping the dreams away. They are why I do not sleep! Do you not see what haunts my thoughts during the night? My nightmares are spilling inside my head: blood, gore, death, fire, crushed dreams I will never accomplish! They need to stop, but they are caused by sleep. Therefore I will not! I will never again lay my head to rest! I can’t do it. Haha, they are all here! Can you not see them? Why can no one else see them? Am I crazy? Are they right? I am cold, and the bed looks oh-so inviting! Is it worth all the lucid horror I will experience? No… I will not let this tempt me!

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On the Sleepless Lives of Writers

Insomnia: source of suffering or creativity.

Franz Kafka couldn’t sleep. In 1910, he felt “while falling asleep a vertically moving pain in my head over the bridge of the nose, as though from a wrinkle too sharply pressed into my forehead.” The next year, he kept notes of successive nights without sleep. “I believe this sleeplessness comes only because I write. For no matter how little and how I badly I write, I am still made sensitive by these minor shocks . . . during the day the visible world helps me, during the night it cuts me to pieces unhindered.” In 1912: “The need for sleep rolls around in my head, tensions in the upper part of my skull on both sides.” Although insomnia was also generative to Kafka—“If I can’t pursue the stories through the nights, they break away and disappear”—the lack of rest took its toll on his health.

Insomnia is a place of suffering and creation. Lisa Russ Spaar, writing about poets plagued with insomnia, describes it as “a crisis of good or of evil, a dark night of the soul that may either bless or curse, that can lead in some cases to epiphany and in others to confrontation with chaos or Death itself.” In “Insomnia,” Elizabeth Bishop writes of a “world inverted,” where:

left is always right, where the shadows are really the body, where we stay awake all night, where the heavens are shallow as the sea is now deep, and you love me.

Sleep is a delicious escape. Sleep is giving in without giving up. To rest is to succumb to our body and then float out of it. Sleep is an act of faith: we hope that we will wake again, so we enter that darkness.

Nearing the darkness of death, Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote his mother a poem:

In the garden of sleep, Where the poppies are spread, I wait for the living, alone with the dead!

Writers enter the space of night with fear and fascination. “The night is darkening round me,” wrote Emily Brontë. Elsewhere she lamented

Sleep brings no rest to me; The shadows of the dead, My wakening eyes may never see, Surround my bed.

Dana Gioia catalogues the prosaic worries of the night: “Now you hear what the house has to say.  Pipes clanking, water running in the dark, / the mortgaged walls shifting in discomfort.” When we can’t sleep, we can’t escape the night; we can’t escape ourselves. “The terrible clarity this moment brings, / the useless insight, the unbroken dark.”

We must be awake to create, but don’t we also need to dream? Insomnia is that place between, where our words and ideas are on our mind, but just out of reach.

I am fascinated by insomnia because I don’t have it.

I love to sleep. I adore naps. The allure of that first moment in bed: peeling back the covers, settling onto the mattress, the exhale that the day is over. I fall asleep fast, but I like to think that is because of the time when I slept but did not rest. The years and years when I wasn’t awake, but my body wasn’t stilled.

Back then, I would fall asleep at my desk. I always like to write best at night, and I would drift-off mid-sentence, rejoining my syntax a minute later. Drafts descended into nonsense. I would read lines to my wife the next morning, and we’d laugh at the strange routes of my thoughts.

I didn’t know true, peaceful sleep until my thirties. My wife’s fear over my snoring was made worse when I would stop breathing. She’d wake me, tell me to shift from my back to my side, but the snoring would return. I have to thank her for saving my life—doctors learned that my sleep apnea was particularly acute. I was a metaphorical insomniac: asleep, but not at rest. Awake, my eyes closed. Drifting through the night, but never at peace.

My treatment was curious. CPAPs—continuous positive air pressure machines—are bulky, obstructive, and strange. A mask connected to a hose, clipped to a humidified machine. My daughters think the contraption is from outer space, and tip-toe around the hose before diving into our bed in the morning. Before I started using the machine, I would stumble through my days, exhausted. Now, I feel alive, aware, and at peace.

But I don’t think the fear of lost sleep will ever leave me. This mechanical gift of slumber feels too good to be true. One night during a storm, when the power went out and the CPAP became silent, I woke dizzy from a headache, and my sleepless past returned like a nightmare.

We can’t live without sleep, and yet it is our most powerful metaphor for death. Linda Pastan said she chose Insomnia as the title of her newest book “because the word conjures for me a struggle with consciousness itself as well as a struggle with the looming dark, just outside the window.” In his essay “The Symbolism of Poetry,” W.B. Yeats writes of the sweet moments when we are asleep and awake; when we drift between states. “The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.” Maybe insomnia is that “hypnotic trance.” One of art’s greatest accomplishments could be putting us to sleep—not from boredom or redundancy, but returning us to the tired way that we entered this world, our bodies warm and thankful. Great writing, for Yeats, is “full of patterns and symbols and music,” in which we “are lured to the threshold of sleep.”

Now that I finally have the gift of restful sleep, I embrace writing at night. The house is silent. Behind us, the sound of owls and wind drift from the woods. In a small room lined with books, I feel comfortably surrounded. I feel, somehow, asleep—and yet I’m at my desk, a lamplight and the computer’s white glowing my hands. I love to write through midnight—so that writing is the first act of the new day. I will sleep soon. But not yet.

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Kafka Harnessed Insomnia to Create His Trippy Fiction

Here’s a Kafkaesque approach to the creative process: staying up so late that, as you doze at the writing desk, insights slip out of your unconscious. This was, according to a new paper in Lancet Neurology , precisely what Franz Kafka himself employed. As co-author Antonio Perciaccante quotes him in an interview with ResearchGate, sleeplessness allowed the Czech writer a certain insomniac mysticism: “[A]ll I possess are certain powers which, at a depth almost inaccessible at normal conditions, shape themselves into literature,” Kafka is quoted as saying.

In the estimation of Perciaccante and his wife and co-author Alessia Coralli, Kafka was tapping into hypnagogic hallucinations , or vivid visions you get before sleep takes you. ( Etymologically , it’s being abducted into sleep.) He captured the experience in his diary, noting that “it was the power of my dreams, shining forth into wakefulness even before I fall asleep, which did not let me sleep.”

The evidence of insomnia is all over Kafka and the anxious Prague he brings readers into. In “Metamorphosis,” after all, Gregor is turned into (spoiler alert) a cockroach after a fitful night of rest. Indeed, Perciaccante argues, Gregor’s transformation isn’t just a symbol of social alienation, as the common interpretation goes, but a metaphor for what shoddy sleep and insomnia do to a person — a point that Donald Trump would do well to learn .

Ol’ Franz wasn’t the only trippy, world-shaping artist who blurred the boundaries between dreaming and waking life. In his life-hacky 50 Secrets of Magic Craftsmanship , Salvador Dalí recommended sleeping in a chair with a key in your hand, held over an overturned plate, so you might wake the moment it slips out of your hand — charging you with energy and flushing the mind with ideas. “Kubla Khan” came to poet Samuel Coleridge in a half-dreamed state ; Mary Shelley had a vision of a “pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together,” thus inspiring Frankenstein ; chemist Friedrich August Kekulé imagined the structure of benzene to be six interlocking ouroboros, pointing him to what a ring of carbon atoms might look like.

Just last month, a Jungian analyst told Science of Us that dreams are a way for your personality to send a message to your consciousness — so it makes sense that there would be a wider aperture of inspiration in a half-dreamed state, too.

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When and How to Write a Character Waking Up

Writing about a character waking up can be a challenge, especially since waking up is something we do in a semiconscious state. It can be tough to pinpoint exactly how it feels, and that makes it difficult to write convincingly. In addition to that, writers seem split on when to start a scene with a character waking up, and whether you should do it at all. 

Is It Bad To Start a Scene with a Character Waking Up?

If you’ve ever been in a creative writing or fiction class, then you’ve definitely been told that it is a bad idea to start a story or scene with your main character waking up. Most experienced writers and instructors strongly advise against it. But why? Is it always a bad idea?

And really, the answer is no; you can pull off a good waking up scene that draws readers into the story. By writing a character waking up in a specific way, you can set the tone for the rest of the scene and offer a unique glimpse into the character’s personality.

However, people tend to discourage starting a scene like this, not because it is inherently bad, but because it is a tactic often used lazily. Many beginner writers rely on this technique as an easy way to transition between scenes. If the transition is abrupt, glossed over, or otherwise disregarded by the writer, then it definitely won’t be taken seriously by the reader.

If you’re considering starting a scene, or your entire story, with your main character waking up, take a moment to consider why you want to write it like that. Do you have a good reason to? Is there another way you could start it? If you don’t have a good reason for writing it like that, you probably shouldn’t do it.

When to Write a Character Waking Up

If you’re going to show a character waking up, make sure there’s a good reason for it. If you just don’t know how else to start a story, and you have your character wake up and start making coffee, chances are your readers are going to get bored. 

If you want to keep your readers interested, focus on the implications of waking up. If your character is awake, then they have to do something. What is it they have to do? Are they looking forward to it, or dreading it? Do they struggle to get up, because they are injured, hungover, or groggy? Give the readers something to think about. Instead of just telling them the character is waking up, let them wonder why the character reacts a certain way when they do get up. 

The act of waking up is not inherently interesting, so it is your job to present it in an interesting way. Use it as a way of emphasizing something, like your character’s memories, fears, habits, and plans. Make waking up a point to focus on, instead of just a lazy transition. And, however tempting it may be, do not overuse this technique. If every scene starts with the character waking up, it’s going to feel mundane. 

If your character suffers from insomnia, then you may find yourself writing many scenes with them waking up, often still tired. If you want some guidance for writing about that specifically, I have another article that could help you out: Losing Sleep Over How to Write a Character with Insomnia?

How to Describe Waking Up

Waking up is a fundamental part of being human; we all do it. The next time you wake up in the morning or from a nap, try to focus on how it feels. Don’t reach for your phone or the lights, and instead think about what it feels like to come back to reality. Were you dreaming? Did you wake up slowly or abruptly? Did you set an alarm? How soon after waking up did you get out of bed? If you focus on how it really feels to do something in your life, you’ll be able to write about it more convincingly. 

With that said, obviously not everyone wakes up the same way. And of course, waking up in the middle of the night with a hangover is going to feel different from sleeping in late on a weekend. Writing about different situations is going to require different strategies.

(As a side note, if you want to write about drunk or hungover characters, I recommend taking a peek at my other article: How to Write a Drunk Character. )

How to Describe Someone Waking Up in the Morning

Waking up in the morning is generally pretty mundane, but there are ways to make it interesting. 

If the character wakes up naturally, then try to draw the scene out so it progresses in a slow and sleepy manner. Introduce details one at a time and try to show the process of things coming into focus. In general, try to avoid actually writing the phrase “things came into focus,” since you can show your readers how that feels instead of telling them that it’s happening.

Overload the scene with descriptive language and details. Bring the scene to life as much as possible, and really set the stage for the rest of the story. Describe what the character hears when they wake up, to clue the readers in to where the character lives. Do they hear birds or busy city streets? Do they hear nothing at all? What about how they feel? Is it cold? Bright?

Don’t just let readers know that the character is awake, let them experience what the character feels as they are waking up. In addition to the physical details, include little hints about the character’s personality based on how they feel about waking up. Instead of just mentioning the sounds of the city, you could describe it with negative language, to suggest that the character hates living in the city. Or, focus on the serene calmness of the sounds of nature and the coziness of the bed, to create a comfortable feeling right off the bat.

Alternatively, if the character wakes up to an alarm, they are probably going to wake up abruptly, and with less time to absorb their surroundings. Alarm clocks represent structure and routine, and your readers will immediately associate the character with being more systematic and less carefree. You should still set the scene with some descriptions to orient your audience, but in general, you should strive to cut back on the flowery language. The character needed to wake up to do something, so they can’t waste time listening to birds. 

How to Describe Someone Waking Up from a Nightmare

Like with an alarm clock, a person waking up from a nightmare is going to wake up rather suddenly. They probably won’t be paying attention to the details of the room, and instead, are going to be disoriented and frantic. A nightmare triggers the body’s fight-or-flight reflex, so the character’s heart will be beating fast, and they will be alert and ready to act to defend themself from whatever they were dreaming about.

After waking up, the character will need to calm down before they can get on with the story. This is a great opportunity to explore the impact of the nightmare and the sentiment of the character. Are bad dreams commonplace, or is the character unused to waking up like this? Is the nightmare an echo of a bad memory, or the result of some supernatural influence? 

Have the character think about the details of the dream after the fact, but do not explain the entire dream for the readers. Give little hints about what it could mean to give readers something to think about. If the dream is foreshadowing a future event or an ongoing struggle, don’t give everything away right from the beginning!

Your character may have a difficult time coming back to reality after a nightmare. When this happens, they could experience sleep paralysis upon waking up. This is when a person is unable to speak or move for several minutes after waking up, and may hallucinate seeing or feeling an evil presence like a demon, a figure from their past, or something they fear. You could use this as a tactic to extend the nightmare into the character’s waking life, to emphasize the impact the nightmares have on them.

If you want to read more about how to incorporate dreams and nightmares into your story, check out my article: Writing About Dreams and Nightmares .

How to Describe Someone Waking Up from Being Unconscious

If your character “fell asleep” as a result of getting knocked on the head then they aren’t going to wake up the same way as they would any other time. The first thing they’re going to notice as they wake up is how bad their head hurts. A person has to be hit really hard to lose consciousness, so your character is in for a pretty bad headache when they come to, and they’re going to notice the pain before they can register any other sensation. Make sure that is the first thing you mention unless the character is woken up forcefully by another character, a loud sound, or something else. 

Once the character has had time to overcome the pain, they’re probably going to be pretty disoriented. Show the character trying to work through exactly what happened before they fell unconscious, and have them try to sort through what they know and don’t know. Was it a bad fall? A fight? How much do they even remember? Help the readers along by having the character search for context, like what time it is, where they are, and how they managed to get hurt. 

Keep in mind that a character who is struck in the head hard enough to knock them out will endure a concussion. The article How to Write About Brain Damage (Accurately!) can walk you through the specifics of including that detail in your story.

How to Describe Someone Waking Up in an Unfamiliar Place

The perfect time to execute a scene that begins with the character waking up is with a kidnapping. Your character will be just as confused as the readers, and you can use that as your hook to keep readers engaged. 

If your character wakes up in an unfamiliar place, chances are, the first thing they’re going to do is start to panic. They may start to wake up groggily, but as soon as they realize they may be in danger, adrenaline is going to kick in and they’ll be fully awake in less than a second. 

They’re going to look around at everything to try to figure out where they are, so make sure you describe the scene in as much detail as possible. However, avoid the flowery language. If your character is terrified, they’re going to look at things and not really think about them much, so describe things quickly and visually—and move on. 

In this case, waking up isn’t the focus. Have the character realize the situation quickly, so they can progress the story. If they can’t move because they’re tied up, then they might start trying to think of how they got there, and who could be behind it. But in general, the character isn’t going to waste a whole lot of time before they start trying to do something to get out of the situation.

Some Parting Thoughts

No one should be able to tell you what you definitively should or should not write. There isn’t a wrong way to tell a story. If you think starting a scene with a character waking up is the best way to do that, then don’t let anyone stop you. It’s your story after all, and if you write it with care and passion, it’s going to be interesting.

If someone tells you not to write something, don’t take that advice at face value. Try to think about why they’re giving you that advice, and why they think it would help you. It’s not that starting a scene with a character waking up is bad, it’s just that most people don’t do it well. When people tell you not to do it, they’re actually telling you not to use cheap tricks to avoid writing difficult transitions. If you know how to handle a character waking up, then there’s no reason to shy away from putting it in your story.

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How to Get Your Creative Brain to Sleep

The writer’s creative brain works in mysterious ways.

Sometimes, it’s thrilling, like when you’re driving along and suddenly a new idea pops into your head for how to iron out that plot point you’ve been struggling with.

Or when you wake up with the story outline of your next novel neatly replaying in your mind, spurring you to get it down before you forget.

Sometimes, though, it’s a royal pain, like when you’re dead tired and you go to bed hoping to pass out and instead, your writing brain runs on and on with “what-if” scenarios until 3:00 in the morning.

What can you do then to get that precious sleep you need? I’ve got some ideas for you.

You Need Your Sleep to Stay Healthy and Alert

You know that you need a good night’s sleep to be at your best. You’ve heard about those studies showing that chronic sleep deprivation can do nasty things to your health.

Indeed, when you regularly fail to get 7-8 hours of sleep at night, you increase your risk of heart disease, diabetes, obesity, cancer, and even premature death. Not good.

Sleep deprivation affects you mentally, too. Studies show that it hits attention first—extremely detrimental to a writer—and next, working memory. Worse, it depletes your creativity. One study found that students deprived of sleep for 32 hours performed worse on tests of divergent (out-of-the-box) thinking, flexibility, and originality, then those who got a good night’s sleep.

In other words, if you don’t get enough sleep, you’re likely to fall back on clichés and standard plots in your work. Getting enough sleep, on the other hand, boosts creativity. Researchers reported on this in 2003. They had one group spend the day trying to find a solution to a problem, while a second group slept on it. Twice as many participants who slept on the problem gained insight into the solution.

So okay, we need our sleep. How do we get it when the writing brain just won’t shut up?

The Creative Brain Has Long Battled with Insomnia

Writer and editor Nichole Bernier conducted her own survey and writers and insomnia, and got some interesting results. I suggest you check them out here . Nearly 70 percent of her respondents felt so involved in their writing that they couldn’t get to sleep or stay asleep.

“When I’m working super well, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night in order to write stuff down,” one of her respondents said.

“My brain won’t turn off,” another commented.

Though some got up and tried to write (with mixed results), the nighttime wakefulness invariably led to difficulty focusing on writing projects the next day.

Yet the image of writers as insomniacs is nothing new. According to Greg Johnson, writing in national literary journal VQR , Frank Kafka, Charles Dickens, Sylvia Plath, William Wordsworth, Charlotte and Emily Bronte, and Walt Whitman all struggled with it, and though sometimes those sleepless nights can produce gems of creativity, most of the time they are associated with difficult consequences, such as the inability to produce anything worthwhile the next day.

Part of the problem is that when you go to bed and try to sleep, you’re not distracted by anything else. In today’s world, that’s actually rare, so it’s no surprise that your brain may choose that time to produce creative ideas about your writing.

If you’re a writer struggling with wakeful nights, or even if you usually sleep well, but are experiencing a period of insomnia, the following tips may help.

10 Tips to Help Your Creative Brain Get a Good Night’s Sleep

One cautionary note: Try not to let your nighttime wakefulness become a habit. Some writers find that when they get up and write, they establish an unhealthy habit. The brain goes, “Oh, okay, this is the time to write, so we’ll do that from now on!” Not a good idea for your health or your writing, long-term!

1. Make sure you’re turning all your gadgets off at least an hour before bed.

Our cell phones, tablets, and computers emit blue light that messes with melatonin, the sleep hormone. ( Read more about that here .)

If you’re typing or researching or simply checking your Facebook feed before bed, you’re increasing your risk of sleeplessness.

Turn them off at least an hour before bed and read a print book or non-backlit tablet instead.

2. Exercise every day.

Exercise is one of the best ways to prepare your body and mind for sleep. It tires your muscles (especially if you work strength training in there a couple times a week) and helps ease stress, too, making it easier to fall asleep.

In a 2012 study, researchers reported that exercise was an effective treatment for insomnia, and the National Sleep Foundation states that exercise “significantly improves the sleep of people with chronic insomnia.”

3. Read—short stories.

Reading is a great way to get your mind off your own writing and into another story. If you read a print book or non-lit tablet, it also relaxes you. The only problem is if you get into a book and don’t want to put it down! To reduce your risk of that, keep a collection of short stories by your bed, and once you finished one, turn off the light.

You can also try a boring book—one that you still want to read for whatever reason. Reading a little bit of it can gradually lead to finishing the book, while also helping to lure you to sleep.

4. Try meditation.

Meditation helps with a lot of things, but it can be particularly helpful for writers, because it disciplines the mind. The more you practice, the better you’ll get at letting things go—and sometimes that’s all you need to do to get to sleep at night. In a 2015 study, researchers found that six weeks of mindfulness meditation helped improve sleep quality, reduced daytime fatigue, and improved mood.

It doesn’t have to be complicated. Take 10-20 minutes a day to either sit quietly or even take a walk, and practice focusing on one thing. Could be an image, a candle flame, a distant tree, the horizon…whatever. Let your thoughts come and go without reacting to them. Just breathe and focus. Breathe and focus.

Once you get the idea, you can also use this at night to help you get back to sleep. Choose a calming image, focus on it, and breathe, letting your thoughts come and go without taking action on them.

5. Use a paper notebook to jot down your ideas.

There have been countless nights and early mornings when I’ve filled up several pages of a printed notebook with the ideas that came to me when I was supposed to be sleeping. Many times those ideas were worth retaining, so I was glad I got them down. The act of writing also moves the ideas from your brain to the page so you can let go.

Just be sure to use a printed notebook and pen rather than an electronic gadget that will mess with your sleep patterns, and I’d suggest a small notebook—not a full-sized one. This will encourage you to jot notes rather than write chapters.

Use a small flashlight to light your way—red light works even better, as it’s easier on your eyes in the dark. The idea is to get those thoughts down while you’re still half asleep and to then shut off the light and go back to sleep. If you turn on a bright light, you’ll wake yourself up more.

6. Practice stretching before you go to bed.

Tight muscles don’t encourage sleep. Yet most of us go to bed with tight muscles. They naturally tighten up during the day in response to activity, and if you don’t stretch them out, they’ll stay tight when you go to bed. That may make it harder to go to sleep, or wake you up later on as your muscles ache and hurt.

Stretching before bed helps prevent these issues, and also provides a natural way to relax your body and mind. Try a gentle yoga routine a half hour before you turn in, or just perform some common stretches like touching your toes, clasping your hands behind your back and pulling your shoulders back, sitting down and reaching for your ankles, etc. The process of stretching slows your mind and helps it get ready for a good night’s sleep, while warming your muscles and promoting relaxation.

7. Journal—and include what you’re thankful for.

You may or may not keep regular writing notes, but if you’re having trouble sleeping, a journal can provide you with the solution. Get all your thoughts down in the journal about an hour before bed, and they’re less likely to wake you up later. You can write about your current project and any difficulties you may be having with it, or simply write about how you felt creatively as a writer that day.

It may also help to write down the things you’re grateful for. In a 2009 study, researchers found that gratitude was related to good sleep quality.

If you wake up in the middle of the night, journaling may help if you write about your insomnia. In that half-asleep mode, simply start writing (by hand) and let your thoughts drip onto the paper. You may discover what’s keeping you awake, and then you can address it, or you may simply get bored enough to go back to sleep.

8. Diffuse some lavender into the room.

Aromatherapy can be very helpful when it comes to insomnia. Lavender, in particular, has shown in some studies to help reverse insomnia. In 2005, for example, researchers found that women, especially, experienced improvements in their sleep duration and quality when they were exposed to the scent of lavender through an aromatherapy diffuser.

Other studies have shown that lavender has sedative properties that can help calm and soothe. Other oils that work well include bergamot, ylang ylang, and jasmine.

9. Drink the right beverage.

Some writers swear by that drink of wine at night, but beware—while it may help you fall asleep faster, it messes with your REM deep sleep, which is especially dangerous where your health is concerned. You won’t get a quality night’s sleep if you’re drinking alcohol before bed.

Try those beverages instead that are linked with a restful sleep. Tart cherry juice, for instance, increased sleep time and reduce insomnia in a couple studies—try 8 ounces twice a day. This juice also works as a natural pain reliever, so if you’re struggling with muscle aches at the end of the day, it may help you in more ways than one.

You can also try a cup of tea—many are associated with rest and relaxation. Some good options include chamomile, lemon balm, passionflower, lavender, and ginger.

10. Create your own “winding down” routine.

How do you get ready for bed? Do you have a regular routine that you follow, or do you run run run and then crash into the pillow?

The latter approach is more likely to lead to insomnia. Instead, create your own before-bed routine and start it an hour before you turn in. Fill that routine with quiet, dim, relaxing activities.

Shut down the gadgets. Turn down the lights. Turn off the noise. Take a nice warm bath or enjoy a hot cup of tea. Spend about 20 minutes stretching your muscles. Journal, color, read a book, or do something with your hands like knitting or crocheting. Let your world quiet down before you ask your body to sleep.

You may think you don’t have time for these activities, but if you don’t get the sleep you need, your health and your writing will suffer. Take the time to take care of yourself and you’ll be more productive during the day.

Final Note: Avoid Sleeping Pills!

One final caution—avoid sleeping pills if at all possible. A 2014 study of over 34,000 people reported that they doubled the risk of death!

A 2015 study also reported that taking sleeping pills regularly increased risk of cancerous tumors in the respiratory system. And in 2012, researchers reported that the top third of sleeping-pill users had a 5.3-fold higher death risk and a 35 percent higher risk of cancer. The brands tested included Ambien and Restoril.

Lead author Daniel F. Kripke told WebMD :

“We are not certain. But it looks like sleeping pills could be as risky as smoking cigarettes. It looks much more dangerous to take these pills than to treat insomnia another way.”

Try the ideas listed above, and if those don’t work, talk to your doctor, but do try to avoid a reliance on sleeping pills. If all else fails, get up and write! Just try not to make a habit of it.

Paula Alhola, Paivi Polo-Kantola, “Sleep deprivation: Impact on cognitive performance,” Neuropsychiatr Dis Treat. , October 2007; 3(5):553-567, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2656292/.

Alice G. Walton, “7 Ways Sleep Affects the Brain (And What Happens If It Doesn’t Get Enough),” Forbes , December 9, 2016, https://www.forbes.com/sites/alicegwalton/2016/12/09/7-ways-sleep-affects-the-brain-and-what-happens-if-it-doesnt-get-enough/#51fd0013753c.

Ulrich Wagner, et al., “Sleep Inspires Insight,” Nature , January 22, 2004; 427:352-355, http://www.nature.com/nature/journal/v427/n6972/full/nature02223.html?foxtrotcallback=true.

Nichole Bernier, “Writers in Bed: Can’t Turn Off the Brain,” The Review Review , http://www.thereviewreview.net/publishing-tips/writers-bed-can%E2%80%99t-turn-brain-0.

Greg Johnson, “On the Edge of an Abyss: The Writer as Insomniac,” VQR, Autumn 1990, http://www.vqronline.org/essay/edge-abyss-writer-insomniac.

Giselle Soares Passos, et al., “Is exercise an alternative treatment for chronic insomnia?” Clinics (Sao Paulo , June 2012; 67(6):653-659, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3370319/.

“How Does Exercise Help Those with Chronic Insomnia?” National Sleep Foundation , https://sleepfoundation.org/ask-the-expert/how-does-exercise-help-those-chronic-insomnia.

David S. Black, “Mindfulness Meditation and Improvement in Sleep Quality and Daytime Impairment Among Older Adults with Sleep Disturbances,” JAMA Intern Med. , 2015; 175(4):494-501, http://jamanetwork.com/journals/jamainternalmedicine/fullarticle/2110998.

Alex M. Wood, et al., “Gratitude influences sleep through the mechanism of pre-sleep cognitions,” Journal of Psychosomatic Research , 2009; 66:43-48, https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/images/application_uploads/Wood-GratitudeSleep.pdf.

Lewith GT, et al., “A single-blinded, randomized pilot study evaluating the aroma of Lavendula augustifolia as a treatment for mild insomnia,” J Altern Complement Med. , August 2005; 11(4):631-7, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/16131287.

Ann Liu, et al., “Tart cherry juice increases sleep time in older adults with insomnia,” FASEB Journal , April 2014; 28(1):Suppl 830.9, http://www.fasebj.org/content/28/1_Supplement/830.9.

S. Weich, et al., “Effect of anxiolytic and hypnotic drug prescriptions on mortality hazards: retrospective cohort study,” BMJ , 2014; 348:g1996, http://www.bmj.com/content/348/bmj.g1996.

Sivertsen B, et al., “Use of sleep medications and risk of cancer: a matched case-control study,” Sleep Med. , December 2015; 16(12):1552-5, https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/26116466.

Daniel J. DeNoon, “Sleeping Pills Called ‘as Risky as Cigarettes,’” WebMD , February 27, 2012, http://www.webmd.com/sleep-disorders/news/20120227/sleeping-pills-called-as-risky-as-cigarettes#1.

What a great post! Loved it. I’ve discovered what you’ve discovered and point out here. When I mess up, and have more than my usual half glass of wine, I wake up mid-night. And if I stay I on my computer past dinner time, it affects me. Exercise is such a great way to combat insomnia. Whenever I’ve had a number of poor nights, I’ve forced myself to exercise and have been rewarded with a good night’s sleep. Thanks for all the reminders. 🙂

Thanks, Diana! Yes, I’ve found that with wine, too, and with exercise. We all need the reminders. Happy writing!

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Writing at Rey's

What are you looking for.

• Writing Advice

How To Write a Character with Insomnia

• Constant Exhaustion
• Tension Headaches
• Lack of Focus
• Difficulty in Falling and/or Staying Asleep (obviously)
• Paranoia/Feeling On Edge (no sleep really messes with your mind dudes)
• Intestinal Distress
• Emotional Control Issues/No Emotion (Basically either crankiness or just done with everything)
• Lack of Energy
• Increase or Decrease in Appetite
• Getting Sick Easily
• Hard Time Making Decisions
• Easily Stressed

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Free Creative Writing Prompts #46: Sleep

We spend around one-quarter to one-third of our time sleeping every day. This, of course, makes it extremely important and we don't always realize that there is a ton to write about this effort to get some shut eye. Whether you are an insomniac or a person who couldn't be woken by a freight train going through your living room, these free  creative writing prompts  about sleep can help you to get some writing out of your experiences. If you're interested in sharing this writing with the rest of us, feel free to use the space below. Enjoy!  Free Creative Writing Prompts: Sleep

1. You have been tossing and turning all night and you can't seem to go to sleep. You go over to your desk and begin writing your insomniac thoughts in a stream of consciousness style. Detail that account and everything that's going on around you.

2. Talk about the first time you had to sleep in bed with someone else. Whether it be a sibling you had to share a bed with, a significant other, or just an awkward situation. How did you adjust to having someone else in there with you? If it wasn't a big deal, imagine that it was for you or the other person and run with it.

3. Discuss a recurring dream that you've had at some point in your life. Did you ever figure out the meaning? Write out all the details you can think of about the dream and then write out the possible meanings for it.

4. You have a big test the next day and you can't fall asleep because of the noises coming from the next door neighbors. Talk about your frustration, your walk over there, and the results that occur.

5. Sleep deprivation. It happened during school and it still happens in life. Talk about your attempts to survive on very little sleep and how effective they were/are.

6. Detail a day in which you've decided to stay in bed from top to bottom. You on and off sleep the entire time, waking to little interesting scenes of other people in the house with you. Talk about this crazy, lazy day.

7. What was your scariest nightmare ever? Talk about who is in it with you and why it was so frightening. Then, write an account of you going into your dream to battle the scariness of it all.

8. What is the most comfortable bed that you've ever slept on? What was it about the bed that made sleeping nearly immediate and divine? Talk about the creation of that bed as if it were some kind of magical construction.

9. The weirdest place you've ever fallen asleep: perhaps the subway, the forest, on a rooftop? Talk about your strangest sleeping location ever and what led up to it, resulted from it.

10. If you are having trouble sleeping, what is your tried and true method to make sure that you conk out? Warm milk? A little bit of TV? Go into one of these situations in a story, and make it a sort of Mission Impossible thing to get to sleep. As if the world depended on it.  A lot of people feel that sleep is overrated. That they can be more productive if they're getting much less sleep. I think this has led to things like the creation of polyphasic sleep, which sounds cool, but has to be somewhat unhealthy. Try to find time to get the doctor recommended amount of sleep every day, it'll probably improve your health and your writing. These free creative writing prompts about sleep may help you to realize that. Happy writing!  Bonus Prompt  - You no longer have to sleep. The world has been granted a full night's rest with the push of a button. What do you do with this new chunk of your day? 

Related Articles to Free Creative Writing Prompts about Sleep Free Creative Writing Prompts from the Heart, Part 1 Free Creative Writing Prompts #2: Love Creative Writing Exercises #2: Relaxation

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The Art of “Creative Sleep”: Stephen King on Writing and Wakeful Dreaming

By maria popova.

Like your bedroom, your writing room should be private, a place where you go to dream. Your schedule — in at about the same time every day, out when your thousand words are on paper or disk — exists in order to habituate yourself, to make yourself ready to dream just as you make yourself ready to sleep by going to bed at roughly the same time each night and following the same ritual as you go.

King likens the creative process to a kind of wakeful dream state. Just like sleep shapes our every waking moment , King argues this dozing of the waking mind shapes our creative capacity by releasing our repressed imagination:

In both writing and sleeping, we learn to be physically still at the same time we are encouraging our minds to unlock from the humdrum rational thinking of our daytime lives. And as your mind and body grow accustomed to a certain amount of sleep each night — six hours, seven, maybe the recommended eight — so can you train your waking mind to sleep creatively and work out the vividly imagined waking dreams which are successful works of fiction.

Ultimately, this “creative sleep” is what allows us to cultivate our own worlds while writing — something stymied by the barrage of distractions that fill the spaces of everyday life. King offers some practical tips on warding those off in order to create the kind of still space necessary for wakeful dreaming:

The space can be humble … and it really needs only one thing: A door you are willing to shut. The closed door is your way of telling the world that you mean business. . . . If possible, there should be no telephone in your writing room, certainly no TV or videogames for you to fool around with. If there’s a window, draw the curtains or pull down the shades unless it looks out at a blank wall. For any writer, but for the beginning writer in particular, it’s wise to eliminate every possible distraction. If you continue to write, you will begin to filter out these distractions naturally, but at the start it’s best to try and take care of them before you write. … When you write, you want to get rid of the world, don’t you? Of course you do. When you’re writing, you’re creating your own worlds.

King’s advice, of course, should be taken with a grain of salt: As E. B. White poignantly put it, “a writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper” — a sentiment Charles Bukowski echoed in his fantastic poem “air and light and time and space,” titled after all the conditions whose presence or absence he thought irrelevant for the true writer, an excuse rather than a necessity.

Still, On Writing remains an indispensable trove of wisdom on the craft and a fine addition to the collected wisdom of famous writers , including Elmore Leonard’ s 10 rules of writing , Walter Benjamin’ s thirteen doctrines , H. P. Lovecraft’ s advice to aspiring writers , F. Scott Fitzgerald’ s letter to his daughter , Zadie Smith’ s 10 rules of writing , David Ogilvy’ s 10 no-bullshit tips , Henry Miller’ s 11 commandments , Jack Kerouac’ s 30 beliefs and techniques , John Steinbeck’ s 6 pointers , and Susan Sontag’ s synthesized learnings .

— Published October 14, 2013 — https://www.themarginalian.org/2013/10/14/stephen-king-on-writing-and-creative-sleep/ —

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A National Journal of Literature & Discussion

“On the Edge of an Abyss”: The Writer as Insomniac

By greg johnson.

D.H. Lawrence might have been speaking for the majority of his fellow authors when he wrote, in his poem “Sleep & Waking,” that “nothing in the world is lovelier than sleep, / dark, dreamless sleep, in deep oblivion!” Even more than paranoia, envy, or rampant egotism, a vulnerability to insomnia might well be the trait most commonly shared by serious writers throughout literary history, regardless of their personal temperament, aesthetic program, or country of origin. In fact, this painful and usually chronic malady has plagued writers so frequently, and with such intensity of anguish, that the insomniac state and its attendant longings might justifiably be considered metaphorical of the writer’s rarefied inner world. If insomnia is the very image of his unblinking consciousness, his stubborn refusal to conclude, however briefly, his voracious scrutiny of the world and of his own mental processes, then it is not surprising that sleep— especially “dark, dreamless sleep, in deep oblivion!”— becomes the corresponding image of his most profound and unattainable desires.

Few writers have lived entirely free of insomnia, and it has struck not only those tormented, “neurotic” artists for whom the inability to sleep might seem only one symptom of a more general emotional malaise. Although Franz Kafka suffered greatly from insomnia, so had Charles Dickens before him; Sylvia Plath endured sleepless nights, but so did William Wordsworth and Walt Whitman. Occasionally hailed as a blessing, an ailment which provides quiet time for productive work in addition to a welcome respite from the hurly-burly of the daytime world, it is more often cursed as a hellish torment, a state of being in which the darker side of a writer’s consciousness—all his personal demons of loneliness and self-doubt—completely overwhelms him, leaving him spent and demoralized for the next morning’s work. Surveying the vast literature of insomnia, one encounters a cranky, red-eyed company of wakeful writers, complaining to one another, hoping and praying for sleep, and at times writing eloquently about their suffering as a kind of literary compensation or revenge.

Whatever the artistic benefits of this malady, writers have used all available means to escape it. The insomnia of Dickens and Whitman drove them out of doors for lengthy nocturnal walks. The friend and biographer of the Bronte sisters, Elizabeth Gaskell, reports that Charlotte and Emily walked in circles around the dining room table until they were tired enough to sleep. (Mrs. Gaskell also relates the poignant detail that after Emily’s death, Charlotte’s usual sleeplessness was exacerbated by grief; unable to give up the ritual, she now walked alone around the table hour after hour, night after night.) Thomas de Quincey famously confessed his addiction to opium, which he began using to combat insomnia and other ills, while F. Scott Fitzgerald turned to alcohol and barbiturates, which created a short-term solution but also a long-term problem. Percy Bysshe Shelley, another opium user, wrote of spending “hours on the sofa between sleep & waking, a prey to the most painful irritability of thought.”

It would appear that most sleepless authors have resembled William Wordsworth, who seemed to view his own insomnia as an unjust suffering that must simply be endured. His poems on the subject are not among his best work, but they show clearly the variety of emotional postures—humble self-abasement, prayerful longing, stinging rage—assumed by a writer suffering the twilit misery of prolonged sleeplessness.

Like other acute insomniacs, Wordsworth often imaged sleep as a recalcitrant loved one, an incalculably distant object of longing, anger and regret, In one of a group of sonnets entitled “To Sleep,” Wordsworth apostrophizes sleep as an unwilling lover: “O gentle Creature! do not use me so, / But once and deeply let me be beguiled.” In another sonnet, sleep becomes a version of Wordsworthian nature, a mother and healer: “Sleep! by any stealth: / So do not let me wear tonight away: / Without Thee what is all the morning’s wealth? / Come, blessed barrier between day and day, / Dear Mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!” In yet another he first resorts to desperate flattery, addressing the longed-for sleep as “Dear bosom Child,” “Balm,” and even “Saint,” but abruptly drops this pose and asks angrily: “Shall I alone; /1 surely not a man ungently made, / Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?”

The journals of Wordsworth’s sister, Dorothy, provide an intimate glimpse of the severe bout of insomnia, lasting throughout the spring and summer of 1802, which inspired these sonnets. Dorothy’s worried, sympathetic entries for these months sometimes note that her brother managed to sleep well, but mostly we read of bad nights—indeed, very bad nights. On June 15, for instance, she reports that at 10:10 in the morning William lies wide awake in bed—still trying to fall asleep, still hopeful.

One theme persists throughout the literature of insomnia: the insomniac by definition is alone in his wakeful state, his aberrant consciousness racing wildly and pointlessly within a universe of slumber. As early as 1616, William Drummond of Hawthornden complained to a personified “Sleep, silence child, sweet father of soft rest,” that in all the world only he remained awake: “Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things / Lie slumb’ring, with forgetfulness possessed; / And yet o’er me to spread thy drowsy wings / Thou spares, alas, who cannot be thy guest.” In our own century, John Updike’s “Tossing and Turning” pictures sleep as “that unreachable star / hung in the night between our eyebrows, whence / dreams and good luck flow,” while Sylvia Plath’s “Insomniac” views sleep as a goal so desperately desired that it becomes a kind of death-wish, the only possible cure for the “white disease” of daylight and consciousness.

This particularly intense and unremitting consciousness that characterizes a writer’s life is not, of course, solely responsible for the plague of insomnia, since writers naturally suffer, and often write eloquently about, those life experiences which preclude a good night’s sleep for virtually anyone. Unrequited love appears most often as the culprit, inspiring frenzied wakefulness and despair. The lovesick Walt Whitman, in sharp contrast to the self-confident braggart of his more familiar poems, describes sleeplessness (in “Hours Continuing Long, Sore and Heavy-hearted”) as the result of nearly unbearable emotional pain: “Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth, speeding swiftly the country roads, or through the city streets, or pacing miles and miles, stifling plaintive cries.” And that perenially unrequited lover, W.B. Yeats, writes eloquently about being “driven mad, / Sleep driven from my bed,” in a poem he titled simply, if rather vengefully, “On Woman.”

Even amid the conventional rhymes and stylized emotions of the English Renaissance love lyric arises the vigorous, wounded voice of Sir Thomas Wyatt, who views his empty bed as a place of torture: “The place of sleep wherein I do but wake, / Besprent with tears, my bed, I thee forsake!” In another poem, his unrequited love and attendant insomnia inspire this tortured outburst: “What meaneth this? When I lie alone / I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan; / My bed me seems as hard as stone./ What meaneth this?” This poem, unusual for its time, creates an acute psychological portrait of the insomniac’s paranoia, his magnified sensitivity to the smallest details of his physical surroundings: “I sigh, I plain continually: / The clothes that on my bed do lie, / Always methink they lie awry./ What meaneth this?”

Guilt, grief, an obsession with personal problems—these also find frequent and striking expression. Surely the most famous insomniac passage in literature is Macbeth’s haunting farewell to “innocent sleep,” which evokes the nightmarish reality of Macbeth’s guilt so effectively that Lady Macbeth’s daylight pragmatism—so powerful earlier in the play—loses its authority and relevance from that moment forward. Among the finest stanzas in Tennyson’s epic of grief, In Memoriam , are these lines in which the speaker conveys a blank, despairing awareness of his own continuing life after the death of Arthur Hallam, and bluntly questions the meaning of his existence: “Behold me, for I cannot sleep, / And like a guilty thing I creep / At earliest morning to the door./ He is not here; but far away / The noise of life begins again, / And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain / On the bald street breaks the blank day.” More recently, Elizabeth Hardwick’s protagonist in the novel Sleepless Nights —also named Elizabeth—refers to the “torment of personal relations” and confesses herself to be obsessed with “those whom I dare not ring up until morning and yet must talk to throughout the night.”

Being a disease of consciousness—or more precisely, of self-consciousness—insomnia perhaps inevitably plagues a disproportionately high number of writers. For insomnia, like other features of a writer’s life, is a species of madness: a state in which the customary evasions of daylight consciousness give way to the demonic specters of self-doubt and self-loathing. Often the inability to sleep arises not from a guilty conscience but from a conviction—perverse but unrelenting—of the utter inadequacy, falsity, and pointlessness of one’s energetic and desperately earnest daytime pursuits. For writers, already plagued by the elusive and slippery nature of language, such doubts are magnified a thousand-fold, and thus an ordinary night is transformed into the dark chamber where his worst anxieties and most lacerating humiliations are endlessly rehearsed.

The paradox of the writer’s temperament—his masochistic love of punishment and his rather elitist self-regard, his sense of a rarefied destiny—finds its purest expression in sleepless solitude. For the insomniac state might also be considered a metaphor for isolation, that fearsome but exhilarating element in which the writer lives. As our greatest poet of loneliness, Emily Dickinson, often observed, such solitude represents both freedom and captivity, the most intense form of living and yet, at the same time, a virtual death-in-life. Though Dickinson spent most of her life inside her bedroom, often meditating upon reality as viewed from her bed itself, she knew that “Of Consciousness, her awful Mate / The Soul cannot be rid.”

A number of Dickinson’s poems suggest an important reason for the writer’s addiction to sleepless nights. Whether viewing herself as a nobody or as an empress, this poet finds in sleeplessness a form of control over her surrounding reality. Many poems serve as tiny cautionary tales, picturing sleep as a dangerous activity which relinquishes one’s fragile hold upon the world. “I held a Jewel in my fingers,” she writes in one early poem, but the speaker wakes to find that “The Gem was gone— / And now, an Amethyst remembrance / Is all I own—.” In another poem, meditating upon a gift “given to me by the Gods”—Dickinson is referring, of course, to her poetic genius—she says that she did not dare to sleep, “For fear it would be gone.” In one late poem the anxiety is more patent, suggesting that “those averse to sleep” are actually afraid of the swirling chaos of the unconscious mind: “Abhorrent is the Rest / In undulating Rooms / Whose Amplitude no end invades— / Whose Axis never comes.”

We know that as a young woman Dickinson sought her father’s permission to stay up very late, in order to work at her poems; and that a preference for nocturnal writing persisted throughout her life. “I would not stop for night,” one poem claims proudly. Dickinson biographer Richard B. Sewall has even suggested that the poem beginning, “A Spider sewed at Night / Without a Light / Upon an Arc of White,” is a portrait of the poet at work, and that it might explain why, in some of Dickinson’s manuscripts, lines of poetry run right off the page. The detail suggests a certain desperation, a stubborn refusal to relinquish consciousness, that seems implicit in many writers’ remarks about their inability to sleep.

Is it possible that insomniac writers, however they may complain of their affliction, are actually fearful of sleep, no more willing than Dickinson to relinquish the controlling and organizing power of consciousness? Is their insomnia, in short, a self-willed ailment, an unconscious struggle against the forces of darkness and chaos? The writer, after all, battles these forces daily, by means of language and his own wit; it is certainly conceivable that writers, more than most people, should resist their nightly plunge into the undulating netherworld that Dickinson found so “abhorrent.”

Scientific research into the causes of insomnia would seem to support such a conclusion. According to a recent study by Dr. Henry Kellerman of New York’s Postgraduate Center for Mental Health, the insomniac may fit the typical image of an anxious, vulnerable person, but is also likely to possess a “rigid and hidden agenda,” one that keeps the insomniac “isolated and separate,” nourishing “a highly critical attitude toward the world.” The insomniac’s inability to control that world, according to Dr. Kellerman, gives rise to what he calls “the main emotion of insomnia,” which is “the insomniac’s underlying anger at the imperfections in the world.” Thus it would appear that the motive for sleeplessness is one with the motive for metaphor: the artist’s desire to create an alternate, more desirable reality, a “hidden agenda” which keeps the writer stubbornly and angrily wakeful despite his ostensible longing for an ordinary night’s sleep.

If insomnia results from the artist’s angry rejection of a world inadequately defined and inscribed, it is not surprising that particularly intense bouts of sleeplessness should accompany periods of creative fallow and the debilitating fear that one no longer can write—the fear that, as in Dickinson’s early poem, the gem is lost forever. In a 1908 letter to John Galsworthy, Joseph Conrad describes his agonizing attempt to begin the novel Under Western Eyes: “I haven’t slept for three nights and have written not a page for a week. And it is late too. So I will go to bed and be there staring at nothing—a greatly refreshing occupation.” Even a writer as prolific and apparently self-assured as Edith Wharton became insomniac during that same year, when her work on The Custom of the Country had come to a standstill. Yet the quintessential case of the insomniac’s anguish surely belongs to Franz Kafka, who would rise in frustration long before dawn to exercise or try to write. In December 1912 Kafka noted, with his usual tortured specificity: “The need for sleep rolls around in my head, tensions in the upper part of my skull on both sides.” Taken as a whole, his writings suggest that insomnia, as an image of unremitting consciousness, may be the most characteristic malaise of the modern writer, especially in his fear of a world increasingly marked by violence, chaos, and death. “Perhaps my insomnia only conceals a great fear of death,” he told his friend Gustav Janouch. “Perhaps I am afraid that the soul—which in sleep leaves me—will never return.”

Such modern anxieties are brilliantly mythologized in the haunting third chapter of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude , in which the village of Macondo suffers an attack of communal insomnia. (This chapter truly deserves that overused designation, “Kafkaesque.”) While the townspeople are elated at first, seeing the extra time as an opportunity for greater productivity, soon enough they discover that they are “living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words.” To keep themselves from forgetting basic facts, they erect one sign bearing the name of the village, and another which reads simply, “GOD EXISTS.” Yet these written words are relics of an old reality, and the more adventurous villagers move into another realm, succumbing to “the spell of an imaginary reality, one invented by themselves, which was less practical for them but more comforting.” Only when a visitor arrives in town, bearing a special potion, does the town again become a “world where men could still sleep and remember.”

In a modern era when artistic endeavor has been viewed as synonymous with the isolated suffering of a Kafka, writers have discussed and complained of insomnia almost as if it were a badge of honor, a sign of their authenticity as writers. For two of our finest modern novelists, Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, sleeplessness became both a tormenting symptom in their lives and a persistent metaphor in their works. Exacerbated in both cases by alcohol and depression, the desperate nocturnal wakefulness of these writers became a frightful emblem not only for their own flagging productivity and creative powers but also for the burden of solitude and meaningless suffering that had descended upon post-war civilization.

For Hemingway, not surprisingly, sleeplessness is analogous to a wild animal or a beautiful woman—something either to be conquered or endured with manly stoicism, so that the insomniac’s noble acceptance of suffering becomes a form of “heroic” behavior. According to his recent biographer, Kenneth S. Lynn, Hemingway sometimes bragged that his chronic insomnia was the result of horrific battlefield memories; but evidence shows that he suffered the malady even in childhood. A 1927 short story, “Now I Lay Me,” convincingly relates his alter-ego Nick Adams’ lifelong insomnia to a fearful distrust of himself and the world. The story takes place in soldiers’ quarters near the battle lines, where Nick lies sleepless late at night. Tormented by the incessant chewing of silk-worms in the brush outside (the worms suggesting both death and a mindless, ongoing nature), Nick confesses that “I myself did not want to sleep because I had been living for a long time with the knowledge that if I ever shut my eyes in the dark and let myself go, my soul would go out of my body.” Nick tries to occupy his mind with memories of boyhood fishing expeditions, but he also recalls his childhood fear of the self-oblivion accompanying sleep: “I assume . . .that I slept without knowing it—but I never slept knowing it.” Pushing these memories aside, Nick then converses with a genial Italian barracks-mate, who urges him to get married so that he can stop worrying and get some sleep at night. A foil character intended to highlight Nick’s wartime despair, the Italian soon goes back to sleep and leaves Nick to an even profounder loneliness: “I stopped listening to him snore and listened to the silk-worms eating. They ate steadily, making a dropping in the leaves.”

What appears to have been Hemingway’s own severest bout with insomnia attended the chilly critical reception given to Green Hills of Africa in 1935. He wrote to Fitzgerald, with whom he often swapped stories of insomnia and other ills, “No matter what time I go to sleep [I] wake and hear the clock strike either one or two then lie wide awake and hear three, four and five. But since I have stopped giving a goddamn about anything in the past it doesn’t bother [me] much and I just lie there and keep perfectly still.”

This uncharacteristic passivity, masquerading as manly cynicism, suggests the severity of his distress, and he was soon writing to his mother-in-law that he’d begun rising from bed, unable to sleep, as early as 2:00 a.m. He’d “never had the real old melancholia before,” he wrote, and the seriousness of his condition now inspired an emotion not often associated with Hemingway—human compassion. “I know what people go through,” he added. “It makes me more tolerant of what happened to my father.” But his depression and insomnia only worsened. On February 13 he wrote to John Dos Passos: “I felt that gigantic bloody emptiness and nothingness . . .and was all for death.”

For Fitzgerald, suffering his own creative and personal decline, insomnia had been the first signal of a general breakdown. His 1934 essay, “Sleeping & Waking,” suggested that all his misfortunes had begun two years earlier, with the author’s nocturnal battle with a pesky mosquito in a New York hotel room. After that he became “sleep-conscious” and transformed his preparation for bed—a night-cap, some light reading, the bedside table arranged just so—into the kind of supersitious ritual familiar to most insomniacs. But these jocular anecdotes give way to an affecting portrait of the insomniac’s dire anguish: “The horror has come now like a storm—what if this night prefigured the night after death— what if all thereafter was an eternal quivering on the edge of an abyss, with everything base and vicious in oneself urging one forward and the baseness and viciousness of the world just ahead. No choice, no road, no hope—only the endless repetition of the sordid and the semi-tragic.”

Describing this dark period in his “Crack-Up” essays of 1936, Fitzgerald formulated the famous and now definitive description of insomnia and its attendant depression: “at three o’clock in the morning a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.” Although these essays describe Fitzgerald coming to terms with his breakdown and entering a period of “vacuous quiet,” his insomnia continued. By the late 1930’s, according to biographer Matthew S. Bruccoli, the novelist required a dangerous quantity of barbiturates to obtain even a few hours of uneasy sleep.

And what of those authors who speak of the benefits of insomnia?—who find the solitude bracing rather than terrifying, who discover in the exhausted consciousness a field of visionary excitement rather than a scene of debilitating nightmares? A random survey suggests that woman writers in general are more likely to turn sleepless hours into creative profit. In her diary entry for Aug. 17, 1934, Virginia Woolf wrote ecstatically, “Yes. I think owing to the sudden rush of 2 wakeful nights . . . I see the end of Here & Now” (the novel she would later title The Years) Sylvia Plath described the delicious privacy of working at her poems around four a.m., to the accompaniment of the milkman’s clinking bottles.

In a 1971 interview, Joyce Carol Oates remarked: “I have terrible nights of insomnia, when my mind is galloping along and I feel a strange eerie nervousness, absolutely inexplicable. What a nuisance! Or, maybe it isn’t a nuisance? An ideal insomnia allows for a lot of reading. When the house is dark and quiet and the entire world turned off for the night, it’s a marvelous feeling to be there, alone, with a book, or a blank piece of paper . . . . Such moments of solitude redeem all the rushing hours, the daylight confusion of people and duties.” More recently, she has written of “the secret pride of the insomniac who, for all his anguish, for all his very real discomfort, knows himself set apart from all others. . . . Unable to sleep, one suddenly grasps the profound meaning of being awake: a revelation that shades subtly into horror, or into instruction.”

However piteously some writers may complain of their vulnerability to insomnia, and however inadequately we may understand the psychological wellsprings underlying the inability—or the refusal—to sleep, it is likely that most authors consider their sleepless hours not entirely wasted. No matter how unpleasant, these hours surely have meaning, and perform their role in an ongoing pattern of experience, of “instruction.” (For if sleep, on the other hand, is sometimes imaged as a “lovely” oblivion, it is oblivion nonetheless— that is, a species of death.)

Perhaps Whitman’s “The Sleepers” may be considered emblematic of this kind of experiential compensation. A poem in which the aggrieved speaker wanders among unconscious soldiers in a makeshift Civil War nursing camp, “The Sleepers” dramatically opposes “the shut eyes of sleepers” against the ongoing emotional experience of the poet, who continues “Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping.” His wakeful curiosity and compassion, in fact, alone stand between these young soldiers and their cruel, seemingly pointless suffering.

As a closing speculation, we might wonder how many insomniac writers would trade their malady for that suffered by Henry David Thoreau. It’s not surprising that this famous dissenter should have resisted the pattern of the hyper-conscious literary artist; in fact, Thoreau suffered from an opposite but surely no less distressing ailment, the hereditary condition known as narcolepsy. Simply put, Thoreau could not keep himself awake. According to his most recent biographer, Robert D. Richardson, Thoreau sometimes felt “that it was a daily triumph just to stay awake until nightfall.”

The idea of narcolepsy sends a thrill of horror down a writer’s spine in a way that even the most anguished description of wakefulness could never do. For all the literary, philosophical, and medical investigation into insomnia, it may be that this most common of literary ailments reduces to a single idea: most writers can’t bear the thought of missing something. Like children at bedtime, they find that even the most pointless activity—whining and complaining, walking in circles, or staring at the ceiling—is preferable to relinquishing the world.

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86 Insomnia Essay Topic Ideas & Examples

🏆 best insomnia topic ideas & essay examples, 📌 simple & easy insomnia essay titles, 👍 good essay topics on insomnia, ❓ research questions about insomnia.

• Insomnia: Cause and Effect On the other hand, HF is one of insomnia’s causes, which creates a cycle when one cardiovascular disease leads to insomnia, and it subsequently increases the incidence risk of similar outcomes.
• Insomnia: A Sleeping Disorder Type Causes of insomnia can be classified into two; factors contributing to acute insomnia and chronic insomnia. Chronic insomnia can be as a result of emotional stress.
• Insomnia: Daytime and Nighttime Repetitive Thinking Hence, repetitive thinking before bedtime causes arousal and anxiety, which in turn causes focused attention and enhanced monitoring of dangers connected to sleep.
• Insomnia: Assessment and Treatment It is critical to consider the prescription therapy that will be most beneficial to him and have the fewest negative effects.
• Psychiatric Examination of Insomnia Patient Information Received from P.E.P.E.decided to address the specialist because of her insomnia and overall problems with sleep, and changes in her mood because of it.
• Effects of Lullaby Music on Quality of Sleep in Adults With Insomnia Insomnia consists of deprivation of the duration and quality of sleep, which affects the psychological and physical condition of people. In addition, the main limitation may be the unreliability of the information provided by the […]
• Benadryl, Medicine for Coping With Insomnia It is important to consult a specialist before taking the pills because the overdose effect might be irreparable. As the pill should be taken several times a day, the dose can be reviewed and increased […]
• Diphenhydramine for Insomnia FDA-approved uses: dystonias, insomnia, pruritis, urticaria, vertigo, and motion sickness, other allergy symptoms.
• Sleep Deprivation and Insomnia: Study Sources The topic of this audio record is a variety of problems with sleep and their impact on an organism. They proved the aforementioned conclusion and also paid attention to the impact of sleep deprivation on […]
• Diagnostic Pathway for Fatal Familial Insomnia In other words, the authors of the study propose that the study of the PRNP mutation resulting in the subsequent development of the framework for identifying the risks of developing the disorder in question will […]
• Sleep Disorders: Narcolepsy, Obstructive Sleep Apnea, Insomnia An important aspect of the pathogenesis is the autoimmune lesion of the orexin neurons of the hypothalamus, which leads to a decrease in the level of hypocretin-1.
• Treating Insomnia Patients: Scientific Method Testing The samples of twenty numbers of the treatment are chosen randomly and the treatment is assigned randomly. Time taken to fall asleep is the dependent variable as it is believed to depend on the treatment […]
• Tai Chi Practice Impact on Adults With Insomnia The goals of this project include the evaluation of the effectiveness of Tai Chi, the examination of its frequency and other sleep patterns, and the analysis of the recommendations that may be given to patients […]
• Insomnia and Narcolepsy: Sleeping Disorders Besides, it was established that people with insomnia are inclined to overestimate the negative effect of sleeping disorder and underestimate the total time of sleep.
• Insomnia Herbal Nonprescribed Treatment Valerian is often used for the production of supplements and is a common ingredient of sleep aids. It is also soothing the cognizance and calming the nerves.
• Eating Disorders, Insomnia, and Schizophrenia Of course, this readiness does not exclude the necessity to identify such people and provide the necessary treatment to them, which is proved to be effective.
• The Genetic Disorder Fatal Familial Insomnia
• The Effect Of Paced Breathing On Insomnia And Vagal
• Psychology Research Report on Insomnia: Symptoms, Causes, and Treatments
• Fight Club: Insomnia Though the Eyes of Hollywood
• Behavioral Interventions for Insomnia
• Sleep Demons: Bill Hayes on REM, the Poetics of Yawns, and Maurice Sendak’s Antidote to Insomnia
• How To End The Frustration Of Insomnia
• Patient Preferences for Managing Insomnia: A Discrete Choice Experiment
• The Brain Mechanism Behind Sleep And Insomnia
• Causes, Diagnosis, Treatment, And Prevention Of Insomnia
• Conquering Insomnia, Pharmaceutical and Natural Methods
• The Controversy On Treatment For Insomnia: Therapy or Medication
• Effects of Valerian on Anxiety and Insomnia
• Fatal Familial Insomnia: A Deadly Lack of Sleep
• Sleep Disorders: Narcolepsy, Insomnia, Obstructive Sleep Apnea
• The Causes of Sleeping Disorder Insomnia
• Insomnia, Sleep Apnea, And Restless Leg Syndrome
• The Effects of Milk Collected at Night in Treating Anxiety and Insomnia
• Insomnia And Depressions Effects On Adolescent Academic
• Stress and Its Relation to Insomnia
• Insomnia Is Defined As Difficulty Falling Asleep Or Staying Asleep
• Effects Of Intrusive Worrying In Primary Insomnia
• Insomnia With Short Sleep Duration And Mortalityki
• The Causes and Treatment of Insomnia, a Sleep Disorder
• Techniques And Effectiveness For The Treatment Of Insomnia
• Herbal Sleep Aids For Insomnia And Other Sleep Disorders
• The Health Problem of Stress-Related Insomnia Among College Students
• Oversleeping The Opposite Of Insomnia
• Effects of Insomnia on University Students
• Insomnia in Men and Women, and the Differences Between Them
• The Causes and Treatment for Chronic Insomnia
• The Different Causes of Insomnia among Men and Women
• Symptoms And Treatment Of Migraine Insomnia
• Insomnia: Sleep Deprivation and Delores Rick
• Marketing Campaign of Sleep Medication at Three Bees Company: A New Drug Prozac to Fight Insomnia
• Sleep Disturbances And The Multifactorial Nature Of Insomnia
• Patti Smith’s Imaginative Remedy for Insomnia
• Taking Chances in The Stand, Desperation, and Insomnia by Stephen King
• Cognitive Behavioral Therapy And Its Effects On Insomnia
• Insomnia: Sleep and Caffeine Related Components
• Depression, Anxiety, and Poor Sleeping Habits as Chronic Causes of Insomnia
• The Insomnia Illness and the Evidence of Studies
• Insomnia: Types, Causes and Consequences
• Insomnia – Causes, Symptoms, and Treatment
• Are Transient Insomnia and Chronic Insomnia Alike and Also Different?
• Can Insomnia Go Away?
• What Are the Types, Treatments, and Effects of Insomnia?
• Who Suffers the Most From Insomnia?
• What Are the Roles of Job Anxiety and Insomnia?
• What Cause Insomnia?
• What Type of People Get Insomnia?
• What Is the Leading Cause of Insomnia?
• What Are the Dangers of Insomnia?
• Is Insomnia a Permanent Condition?
• What Is the Best Medicine for Insomnia?
• What Foods Cause Insomnia?
• How to Fix Insomnia?
• What Are the Five Types of Insomnia?
• What Is a Neural Correlate of Insomnia Complaints?
• Why Do College Students Have Insomnia?
• What Are Five Insomnia Symptoms?
• Is Insomnia a Mental Disorder?
• What Causes Female Insomnia?
• What Is the Cure for Insomnia?
• What Is Insomnia Explained?
• What Is the Genetic Disorder Fatal Familial Insomnia?
• What Is the Importance of Insomnia?
• Are Insomnia Type Sleep Problems Associated With a Less Physically Active Lifestyle?
• Is Insomnia a Common Problem?
• Mental Disorder Essay Topics
• Depression Essay Topics
• Cognitive Behavioral Therapy Topics
• Schizophrenia Essay Topics
• Abnormal Psychology Paper Topics
• Dissociative Identity Disorder Essay Topics
• Neuropsychology Topics
• Therapeutics Research Ideas
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IvyPanda . "86 Insomnia Essay Topic Ideas & Examples." February 25, 2024. https://ivypanda.com/essays/topic/insomnia-essay-topics/.

I write this piece at four in the morning. My legs are restless, eyes sore and heavy. My mind won't shut off, no matter how many sheep sail over my mental fence. In fact, I join in with the sheep, each fence I jump another obstacle into the pasture of life. I worry, I sweat, I often cry. Tonight I am fretting over my writing. It sucks, it's boring, it's cliche. The Pasture of life? Give me a break. The truth is, I am insomniac--or rather, a recovering insomniac. This evening I am revisiting, somewhat conciously, my illness.

The sun comes up whether you've slept or not. The hardest thing about insomnia is that the world doesn't stop for it. You have to keep going, deliriously. It's like trying to enter the Beltway around Washington, DC during rush hour. You don't want to--its fast and scary and you can't concentrate enough to make a move. But, you know that you have to be at work by 8 and there's a line of cars behind you beeping their horns aggressively. And all you want to do is sleep!

So, you get to work, put on a pot of stale Folgers (yes, you are a coffee snob), and down three mugs of it, feeling the sludge-like liquid reverberate off the walls of your stomach. You're eyes aren't puffy today, but they do have a certain hollow quality about them. The movement around the office, the phones, the tap-tap of the keyboard in the cubicle next to you....it's all enough to make you want to scream shut up I haven't slept in three days! You don't do this, because then everyone will know your secret.

I never had to drive to work in rush hour traffic, however, only to find myself in a bleak office building with suited men and women drinking bad coffee.I was 21, a college student in DC. The job insomnia hindered? I was a floral designer. Yes, I paid my way through college arranging flowers. Not a bad gig, though like any job, still required energy, concentration, and regular attendance.

Insomnia sucked me of these things. Life with insomnia was incredibly disorienting. I was jumping through the hoops, but not really paying much attention to why I was jumping or where I was going to land. More than once I fell flat on my face. There were tests that were missed, classes I skipped so I could sleep, work that got lied to on many occasions. Either I was sick, sick, or Sick. I found hundreds of ways to be sick, but still managed to avoid the real sickness at hand.

I wouldn't have even considered letting my bosses and professors in on the fact that I had insomnia. Funny, I don't think they would have been sympathetic of a college-aged girl who claimed she could only sleep at 2 in the afternoon. Yet it was true, eerily, depressingly, heartbreakingly true.

And so my sleepless nights continued, month after month.

My boyfriend eventually refused to sleep with me. His warm, snoozing body beside me made things worse, and so he was banned from my bedroom anyway.I attempted to make use of the time I wasn't sleeping. I thought maybe I could readjust my schedule and turn my night into my day and so forth. That only lasted but for so long. I couldn't concentrate at night--I had never been a nighttime person before. The thick quiet of the house, the steady hum of the old fridge, every click and clack and bark of a distant dog sent me to my sheets, reminding me I was not supposed to be hearing these noises, that they were meant for blending in with daytime sounds only to be heard by the nutcases who were actually awake in the silence of night.

I began bonding nicely with Hendrix, my cat. His nocturnal energy was inspiring to me. I took to buying him extravagant, feathered toys and fattening treats. His racous nighttime play took my mind off of my insomnia, temporarily anyway, and we adjusted to each other's schedules. Perhaps I was a cat in a former life.

Search for creative inspiration

19,898 quotes, descriptions and writing prompts, 4,964 themes

sleep - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing

• falling asleep
• getting a child to sleep
• hibernation
• needing to rest
• sleeplessness

I have always felt a serenity upon sleeping. I love my bed. I love to dream. I love the moments between wakefulness and sleep. The feeling of my brain shifting gears is so sweet. I start to see it play its movies, always telling me things in visual puns and metaphor. Sleep is a kind of heaven for me, though I love my waking days too.

Sleep comes so that my dreams may live.

When the stars come out to play and the evening takes on that aroma of the night, when the crickets sing for the joy of living, my bed awaits. I love the softness, the quiet, the sense of rest. My thoughts slow as a beautiful carousel, each dancing as ribbons from a kite string that reaches for sky, its colours embracing those lofty heights and inviting in the dreams that wear festival costumes and are formed of music. In sleep, as in wakefulness, I play.

In sleep I feel the cradle of the loving universe, as if for those hours of dreaming I am returned to heaven's arms.

Sleep in my arms, sleep in my protective and loving arms, for if you ever need protection I will awake and take care of the task.

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Are all creative people midnight owls? (dealing with insomnia as an artist or writer)

While I can only speak of my own experience, it’s not difficult to recognize that many famous creative people were up late “burning the midnight oil.” We can speculate this is because the peace and quiet allows them to fully drink from the solemn well of inspiration.

Night is certainly more novel and less profane than day. –Henry David Thoreau

Except it’s a little more than that, because it’s rarely a choice: we *can’t* sleep even when we want to. Personally, I have a sleep disorder where I stay awake for about 20 hours and then sleep 10 – so every day is different. (Unless I’m feeling manic, then it’s 6 hours of sleep and a weird-floating/buzzy feeling for days). It’s not great for my health or life, and while I know I *can* set alarms and function if I have somewhere to be, I’d much prefer not to. Instead, I sleep all I want, when I want… or more technically, I avoid sleep as long as possible, and then crash hard. It often takes all day for my brain to wake up, and around 10pm it really starts getting going. If I’m in an interesting project, I may count on six good hours of work. It don’t feel like it’s a choice; and after several days without seeing the sun it gets annoying – you can’t go out, everything is closed. Insomnia usually challenges creative people because they have so much on their mind already, and keep it at bay with distractions… until they lay down and shut their eyes, determined to get some rest. THEN their brain fully wakes up.

What hath night to do with sleep? –John Milton

I won’t suggest melatonin or water or exercise or counting down from ten. Instead (maybe)… get up and get to work. Reread your last chapter. Work until you get stuck. End the scene or chapter in the middle, not at the resolution – or go to sleep thinking about the next thing you need to write or do. Go through your checklist. You may want to try “midnight pages” instead of the more common morning journaling. Free write until your brain is purged of ideas, instead of trying to turn them all off.

I appreciate this guide, because I feel like the creativity gurus have overlapped with the productivity/morning people. So, chipper, positive thinking, getting up at 6am and all that stuff. Which I feel, deep down, is the antithesis or true genius (organization, planning and goal-setting, mindfulness…) Raw creativity is an elusive beast to be tempted out and wrestled to the ground, like Jacob wrestling with the angel. Or it’s spontaneous and uncontrolled: a firehose of inspiration.

O seeker, Listen to your heart’s true yearning. Don’t sleep. –Rumi

Maybe it’s not supposed to be channeled and constrained in predictable, healthy ways. Maybe it’s the flood of endorphins and serotonin which is by nature unsustainable and can only be followed by a hard crash and restorative period. I hate the idea that creative people might feel guilt or shame about being unproductive, or not being able to finish things reliably on a set schedule, or wishing they could be *different* or *better*.

At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night. –H.P. Lovecraft

Fun vocabulary:

• NYCTOPHILIA – preference for the night
• NOCTURNALIA – cloak yourself in inspired darkness
• NYCTOPHILE – night lover
• VIGILANTIA – the hyper-alertness that comes instead of sleep
• EVIGLIO – “sentinel behavior”: being awake and focused at night to protect the tribe
• METANOIA – a profound shift in awareness, a spiritual conversion; something that often only occurs after a breakdown

Quick summary: Stable, healthy habits are not conducive to actual creative progress. They may help you with the practice, skillset, acumen and effort in building a body of work, but it may not be good work. Real creative work is rarely careful.

Quotes on this page are from Diane Riis’s Midnight Pages: Mystical Inspiration and Writing Prompts for Writers, Insomniacs, and Night Owls. Earth and Soul Publishing. Kindle Edition.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want. Don’t go back to sleep. –Rumi

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I’m a philosophy dropout with a PhD in Literature. I covet a cabin full of cats, where I can write fantasy novels to pay for my cake addiction. Sometimes I live in castles.

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Insomnia - creative writing

         There seemed to be no place to escape the rush of the busy city. Tall, medieval buildings defined the heart of it and, paradoxically, it was there where people could enjoy an oasis of relaxation.

        The pub was situated on the first floor of the ancient block structure which took up most of the area of that boulevard. There were no signs or banners to indicate the presence of the pub. You’d have to enter on the left in a space which looked like all the other ones along the street, and go up circular stairs covered in thick dust and which were neglectfully decorated with drops of fresh concrete.

        You’d then be welcomed by a tall gate covered in stickers which would advertise various gigs or artists. Inside, there were tables arranged so that they’d create a nostalgic atmosphere.

        The gloomy pictures on the walls looked like pieces of lost people’s memories. The few lamps were far from modern or expensive; they were manually made from bits of paper and straws.

This is a preview of the whole essay

        Heated arguments homed there usually consisted of silence. A thick layer of smoke kept swinging from room to room and in the toilet. A tall, skinny child was dragging its drunken desperation out of it. Her bones protruded the worn out clothes and her mumbling words resounded as wolves’ howls in the woods.

        “Sophie, where... where,”

        I looked at the girl trying to figure out what her problem was. Her tiny eyes, hidden under huge saggy eyelids, hinted she must have drunk up the pub’s depo room. I knew I would find her here, the little bitch. After looking around for a minute longer, she saw me. I was her Sophie. I also used to be her mother. I liked to think I had absolutely no connection whatsoever to that vandal, that misery of a child. Why was I there? I knew I would find her there! I wanted to find her there, I... wanted to see if she was ok. Ok? My God, she needed an ambulance, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, a counsellor, and she’d still need a lot more help. I could not offer anything to her that would help her, I was good of nothing. I followed her with my eyes. My pupils got larger and larger until finally she was sitting next to me, my child Angela. I named her Angela in the lustful blind hope that God had offered me an angel of a child. How ironic, I thought, as I turned to look at the person I still couldn’t help but call my child.

        “Hey, chica!” a husky voice said. I muted. The moustached young man before me was a mere stranger. I stood up hastily, ran down the stairs in the dark and quickly lost myself in thoughts and the ever so busy city. I was being haunted and it was me who desperately needed all the help that I could get. The crowds of people surfed upon my head and I just wanted silence. But God knows that was the only thing I had been after since then.

Document Details

• Word Count 526
• Page Count 2
• Subject English

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66 Night Journal Prompts: Fun and Creative Writing Ideas for Late Nights

By: Author Valerie Forgeard

Posted on Published: September 30, 2022  - Last updated: December 26, 2023

Categories Creativity , Inspiration , Self Improvement , Writing

Do you have trouble falling asleep at night? Or maybe you find yourself wide awake at 3 a.m., unable to get your mind to stop racing. If so, you might benefit from keeping a night journal.

Night journaling is a great way to relax and clear your head before bed. It can also be a fun, creative outlet when you can’t sleep!

This article will provide some fun, and creative writing prompts for late-night journaling. We hope these prompts help you get more restful sleep and unleash your inner creativity !

66 Night Journal Prompts

First, choose a writing prompt you feel most comfortable with to get started on your bedtime journaling:

Daily Routine

• What time did you go to bed last night?
• What time did you wake up today?
• What surprised you today?
• What did you do today?

Thoughts and Feelings

• What’s going through your mind right now?
• What are you worried about?
• What thoughts interfere with your sleep?
• What thoughts are on your mind right now?

Reflecting on the Day

• What did you like best about this day?
• What was the best part of your day?
• What was the worst part of your day?
• What did you learn today?

Tomorrow’s Goals

• What do you want to accomplish tomorrow?
• What do you hope will happen tomorrow?
• How can you make tomorrow better than today?

Relationships

• What were people like today?
• How did important people make you feel?
• Who did you spend time with this week?

Personal Growth

• What challenges do you face this week?
• What’s the hardest decision recently?
• What inspires you the most? Why?

Dreams and Sleep

• Describe your last dream in detail
• What thoughts disrupt your sleep?
• How can improve your sleep habits?
• What helps you feel better on bad day?
• What makes you afraid?
• What’s your favorite childhood memory ?

Self-Reflection

• Why do you react to certain people that way?
• What’s influenced you & how?
• What throws you off track?
• Write three things grateful for this week
• What inspires imagination & heart?
• What’s something makes life wonderful?

Inspiration

• Who do you admire & why?
• Who’re the special people in your life?
• Who motivates & excites you daily?

Happiness and Joy

• What brings happiness & joy?
• What makes other people laugh?
• What makes you feel angry/frustrated?

Family and Friends

• What’s your family like?
• Who’s important in your life & why?
• How do loved ones make you feel?

Career and Life Purpose

• What’s your current goal/dream?
• Have any dreams come true lately?
• What’s the best career if money no object?

Emotions and Challenges

• Do you regret anything & why?
• What are you afraid of?
• What makes you feel connected to nature?

Growth and Change

• What do you want to do before dying?
• What needs improvement to grow?
• What advice helps make dreams real?

Perspective and Wellness

• Where would you travel if could tomorrow?
• What does gratitude mean to you?
• How care for mental health better?
• What makes you feel most alone?
• What’s meaning of night to you?

Life Experiences

• Describe childhood in short story
• What impacts people besides yourself?
• What’s an important lesson lately?
• What makes you proud or accomplished?

Imagination

• If I ask God a question, what’s it be?
• What do you wish to tell you earlier?
• What’s your dream home like?
• What change in world if could change one thing?
• What is the best dream you ever had? What was it?
• How nature feels most connected to you?

Writing a Diary Before Going to Bed Can Help to Prepare for the Morning Better

Writing a diary at night has many benefits. One of them is the opportunity to reflect on your day. The end of the day is an excellent time to reflect on the day’s events.

A bedtime journal can be a great way to start your day with focus, clarity, and intention.

Here are some ways a sleep journal can help you better prepare for tomorrow:

• It helps you clear your mind so you can fall asleep more easily.
• It helps you organize your thoughts to wake up refreshed and ready to tackle the day ahead.
• It helps you identify problems that must be solved before they become more extensive during the day or week.
• It helps you identify patterns or trends that may be affecting your mood or productivity at work or at home.

A Bedtime Journal Is a Great Way to Wind Down and Relax Before Bed.

Not only will evening journal prompts help you feel more in control of your negative emotions and stress, but they may also help you sleep better.

Throughout the day, your mind gathers a lot of information and thoughts. A bedtime journal allows you to reflect on the day’s events positively.

You can write your journal prompts in bed with pen and paper or on the computer. The most important thing is to keep it consistent so you don’t lose momentum.

The first step is to find a quiet place where no one will disturb you while you write in your journal. Make sure there are no distractions like ringing phones or people nearby so you can focus on what you want to write about.

Take some time each night to write about one journaling prompt, whether it’s just 5 minutes or an hour before bed. It doesn’t matter how long you take, as long as you repeat it every night!

Nightly Journal Writing Is a Technique That Helps You Get to Know Yourself Better

In it, you write down your thoughts and feelings as they come to you at night before you go to bed.

The benefits of night journaling practice include:

• It helps you relax. Night journaling habits can be relaxing and meditative. It also helps you clear your mind before bed, making it easier to fall asleep faster and longer.
• It helps you deal with stress, anxiety, and depression. Night journals are beneficial for people who have difficulty expressing themselves verbally or in writing when they feel anxious or depressed. When you write something down, you can get rid of pent-up emotions without dealing with the consequences of speaking out loud (or in front of others).
• You can improve your memory and cognitive function by recording your progress. Keeping a night journal is a way to track how things are going for you – what’s working well for you and what’s not – so that, over time, you can see if you need to change anything to make life better overall.

How Much Time Should I Spend on a Night Journal?

The main purpose of the night journal is to record the day’s events so you can look back on them later and see how much your life has changed over time. It’s also a good way to reflect on what you’ve learned so far in your life and what kind of person you want to be. Night journals are personal, but they’re also public – because anyone can read them!

At first glance, keeping night journals may seem like a waste of time or an unnecessary task that keeps you from doing other things that need to get done.

For example, if you get home late from work or school and only have 15 minutes before bed, you may wonder if writing just one sentence about your day (or maybe none) is worth it.

Journaling Improves Self-Awareness

Writing down everything that happened during the day (and how you felt about it) helps you develop better self-awareness about yourself and others.

You Can Also Use It as a Dream Journal

Some people use a diary to write down their thoughts and feelings. Others use it as a dream journal, writing their dreams every morning.

If you’re wondering why someone would write down their dreams, there are many reasons. One of the most common is that dream interpretation is popular in many cultures, including Western culture.

Another reason is that some people find their dreams interesting and enjoy reading about other people’s dreams.

It’s also a reason for keeping a dream journal that it helps with insomnia – if you wake up in the middle of the night, it can be difficult to get back to sleep if your mind is busy with thoughts or worries.

If you already have your dreams written down, your mind will be busy reading them instead of worrying about what you’ve to do tomorrow or what happened yesterday.

A dream journal doesn’t have to be just for writing down your dreams; you can also use it as a night journal where you write down all the things that happened the day before you go to sleep – who did or said what, when, etc. Wake up in the morning and remember something significant that happened yesterday (or earlier in the evening). You can quickly check your evening journal to see if it’s mentioned.

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If you appreciated this article, you might also find our “365 Journal Prompts for All Year” engaging and beneficial. It’s designed to keep your journaling journey interesting and insightful every day.

365 Journal Prompts to Help You Reflect, Grow, and Connect: A Year of Self-Discovery