It’s right after you thought about going to bed. You decide to squeeze in an hour of Skyrim. Then your mind wanders a bit—the game can’t hold it. It drifts toward to that thing you’re writing. You pause the game to brew a cup of herbal. While the water’s on, you grab your manuscript and flip it open to the next bit to work on. You read it for a bit. You’re not planning to do anything with it tonight, of course. You’ve already filled your daily quota. But there’s something sticky about it. When you touch it, it’s hard to put it down. You grab a pen and make a few notes in the margin. Just a scribble. But then the scribble takes off on its own. Before you know it, you’re in the chair with the too-bright desk lamp shining on your wonderful doings. You’ve got a paragraph and a half done and your face takes on that goofy blank you get when something grabs you. And there’s something else going on. A smile plays at the corner of your mouth. You’re not just making the thing anymore. You’re consuming it. You’re not just writing the story. You’re reading it and enjoying the hell out of it. When the kettle on the stove whistles, you jump in surprise, then run to get it so you can get back to the desk before you miss anything.
You don’t get to bed until late. But you sleep wonderfully.