I could hear a mouse under the bed. Crisp little maneuvers, poking around the books and pictures stored down there. Now, I am not afraid of mice, that’s more of a snake issue, but still, this little varmint rooting around wasn’t exactly relaxing.
I woke my husband, and he didn’t complain or resent my waking him so late. He doesn’t like home invasions any more than I do. Instead he hopped up and found a mouse trap on the porch, slapped peanut butter on the trip latch, then just as promptly hopped back into bed and fell asleep.
Now, sleep wasn’t so easy for this girl–conking out after such a creepy discovery. I rolled to my side listening as that little critter resumed his inventory of my stuff. My stomach tensed some, waiting for the steel of death to suddenly snap. It might as well have been a grenade with the pin pulled out. I simply couldn’t twiddle my thumbs waiting for that deadly crack.
That huge comfortable couch in the living room soon beckoned to me. I grabbed my pillow and extra blanket, bedding down away from that condemned rodent. And though my eyes were closed, my mind remained wide open, still anticipating that sudden snap. Extra pillows seemed fitting, and I piled on those that were in reach. While fussing around, trying to get comfortable, I heard that final smack, and thought that maybe sleep could now finally find me.
My mind wandered, just drifting here, floating there, eventually focusing on my second installment of River of January, The Figure Eight.” I’m a little stuck in 1938–big things happened all at once and I need to get a grip on my approach. Helen was stuck in New York at that moment and Chum was flying around the Midwest. She needed to do something besides nothing, so I researched a little of what was happening on the stage. Well, I found some memorable plays, movies and concerts while she was waiting for him. And those events were the destination of my sleepy thoughts.
Bam, right between the eyes–the thesis of my entire work hit me. It was me doing the hopping now, and I leaped off the couch, fired up my laptop and pounded away. Holy smoke-a-roonies! I thought inspiration came while trying to think, not while trying sleep. And I loved the direction my absent thoughts took me. But, alas, no . . . I am not spilling the beans here on that midnight epiphany. For that readers must wait for the second book.
For now remember River of January is for sale. (click the title, it takes you right to the webpage)
I owe that dead little vermin so much!