The challenger has just gotten his feet wet, when he realizes he’s already finished off two, very activating projects, in this one abysmal night alone, and has begun a third, as the clock edges up to approximately 11 PM in the night, the last he checked, when the man has already become so obsessive/compulsive with his writing of his every random thought. He can scarcely stop writing at all, while the actual participating in the presentation, in and of itself, has begun to chase him around the clock in the middle of the night, when he supposes he ought to be sleeping, if he wanted to be sensible.
Being no stranger to insomnia, the author does his best to solicit that very state of affairs, while he chronicles his late night thought processes, on his perpetually blank page, in his illuminated, electronic notebook. He has a conscious desire to stay up as late as he pleases, in this ethereal night of nights, for the benefit of listening to a chattering muse, for him to endeavor to record as verbatim as possible, every thought, on the never ending blankness of virtual pages, where all of his major writing takes place for him anymore.
Having his own laptop is a luxury to him.
He asks himself why it is that he should adhere to an arbitrary scheduling of his resting, along with the arbitrary structuring of letting his writing go, until a more convenient time, when he might have far more rest, but far less to say in his chronicle of ideas about what to write. He finds himself being royal to prompting his own, personal muse, to just keep on writing, and ignore the clock altogether, which he has succeeded in doing for several hours now, into this late hour in the night.
The author is not intimidated by his own insomnia. In fact, he’s counting on it. He’s reveling in his own inability to relax and make himself sleep, in the face of the very medications he ignored when they would have been the most effective with him, that are prescribed to help him achieve sleep every night. He’s chosen staying up late at night tonight, the way he’s done frequently throughout his lifetime.
His consequences for doing a red eye writing marathon have been a somewhat noticeable detriment to the little bit of comfort he’ll forfeit later on, in a far reaching past he’s nearly forgotten, but he has every desire to follow his muse on into this latening evening, writing on a random schedule for his ongoing expression, until he finds himself caught up in it all, in spite of himself.
The night stretches on into a very early morning, as the author supposes, in the relative darkness of his dimly lit room, where his racing thoughts engulf his glowing electronic notebook screen, as well as crowding his teaming brain with noises only he himself can hear. The time remains irrelevant, as the author keys in more and more of the ideas that come to him at random.
There seems to be a central theme that’s growing out of this wild stream of consciousness writing that the writer is trying his best to put his finger on, but it seems that all the man is doing is to put himself into the position to need some more sleep, before he can actually identify the common thread.
This is stream of consciousness writing, like the great Henry David Thoreau. The author’s been doing this for many long hours into the night. The author has this compulsive desire to keep on working, until the point of the entire project pops directly out at him, as if he, involuntarily keys in random ideas into this ongoing work, quite unintentionally, while thinking of something else entirely.
The author sits in full view of his big wall clock, half blinded by the stark contrast achieved by studying the virtual paper perpetually in front of him. He’s disciplining himself to avoid looking in the direction of the clock as perfectly as he refuses to read anything on the web he doesn’t think is good for him to fill his mind with. He finds himself censoring and choosing what he might like to allow into his own mind.
He can hear the clock on the wall across the room ticking off his minutes, as he refuses acknowledge the time, and refuses to look at the wall clock at all. The stark sound of the clock marking the passage of time, accentuates the advancing of the night, while the man works on his stream of consciousness piece late at night.
He’ll sleep later.
He’s been asking himself how it was that the great Hemingway ever talked himself into doing something so stupid as to take his own life? Then the conqueror of the craft of the short story edges on toward staying up all night long, to listen attentively to his personal muse, as it is making a racket in his thinking, regardless of his normal sleeping schedule or the ordinary schedule of the assisted living home where he lives now, in the Tidewater Area of Southern Virginia.
He figures that in the morning, it will be Sunday, and he can sleep whenever he can sleep. There are few enough times when he can follow his muse this closely, and be so wide awake this late at night he remains unhampered by drowsiness past 5 AM in the surrealistic morning. He is reluctant to let his muse go dormant on him, when it might just give him something useful to have, later on. His writing has become more than a compulsion for him.
It has become a revelation.
Writing has become the man’s addiction, as he responds to his editor’s challenge, to write more and more work, after he’s finished his first book. Well, the danger has long since past, after that challenge has already been met several times over. The author of all these multiple verbiage has continued to write ad infinitum, until the wee hours of the morning begin to creep up on the insomniac, bringing about such profound Hemingway thoughts as The Sun Also Rises. Of course, Hemingway had the availability of alcohol to ruin literally everything in his whole world for him, unlike the most recent conqueror of the short story has created his own art form.
The most recent conqueror of the short story asks himself whether he can deny himself any glances at the clock on the wall, until the sun also begins to rise on the far side of the building from where he sits demanding of himself to keep on writing under all circumstances, in the semidarkness of this latening hour of night.
However late it must be by this time in his third project of the same evening, his third project of the evening becomes a substantial project for the conqueror of the form of the short story to muster from his insistent muse, so far removed from the voice of propriety and reason, that he’ll allow himself to stay up late, disregarding the time of night altogether. The challenger has become his own master once more, and continues to write, even though the hours have got to be getting later by the minute.
It won’t be long now, until the sun also rises this coming morning.
What a wonderful way for an author to live! He must structure his evenings to avoid writing the entire night through, as the symbolic howling of the winds from his personal muse must have hit him a lot harder than he ever thought possible, until they’ve finally hit him so late at night, it’s almost a new day. He’s doing his best to capture a train of thought, as it barrels along on a railroad of compulsive doing, that has become it’s own unique madness careening forward, to pass right through the author, and the man, alone in his suite all night.
Maybe that’s what Hemingway was so worried about, when he stayed up all night drinking alcohol, and compulsively writing some of the finest modern literature the world has yet at its disposal, ever since the man first settled himself down at his typewriter. Now that ole Hemingway himself has destroyed himself, forcing the hand of the Almighty Himself, when the man should have understood that there was a limit to his wild liberties, even as a chronicler of a very noisy muse, who would not allow the man to get any sleep at night.
It’s acceptable to miss a night’s sleep once in awhile, if one is doing something important.
But the short story author figures he can stop at any given moment now, as the most inane ideas come bubbling up to waste his time in a settling up of a lot of delirious writings, that were probably getting the man nowhere, fast by now. He’d like to write some more short/short fiction, but it’s beginning to appear that all he’s doing is recording some more random thoughts for his online diary.
There is a difference.
Besides, his cover graphics artist might not want to make him some cover graphics, after fielding all those great American Anthology singles, that only an author could love, at least before others around him were to admire the great stoicism his muse was imposing on his audience, in his great haste to be more grown up than he was, in the summer he was 20 years old. The young man was generally docile toward doing anything, besides originating a tired staff of all the same authors and such, with his hyperactivity from being on campus and taking drugs all day.
The author is so fascinated by a new stream of consciousness set of writing. He only wishes to get down the most of it, before he becomes totally baffled by his own nighttime medications, which are designed to overtake him with sleep, long before morning arrives. In fact, at the moment, his nighttime meds are making it tough for him to focus on what he’s trying to get done.
He refuses to abdicate his position of chronicler of his random thought patterns writing he’s been nicking away at all night. He craves to write stream of consciousness literature, because it seems to him to be a remarkably clear form of creative writing. It’s been happening to him a lot this evening. The man is not the slightest bit interested in the time of night, or any of other random markers of the conventions of the modern world, while his muse drones on and on through the darkness.
Whether any of these musings has made any impression on his challenge to be continuing to write, since he’s already finished his two projects for the one evening, with a will to establish another beginning, so soon after finishing off the other two projects, the author only continues, blindly, in the dark recesses of his mind, writing as much stream of consciousness work as he can muster, until another idea overtakes the interests of the author, who is doing his best to follow his muse, as he becomes more and more incoherent by the moment.