btdt. Still sleep alone. Sigh.

Oh, NICE one, Nova!

One hundred words precisely, on a given theme. BTW, it's a gorgeous way to tease out a problem in longer pieces; at my brilliant husband's suggestion, I've used it to define plot points in my head, and surprised myself in the process.

Hmmm.

Paris on a Summer Night

Quiescence, the heart of rest.

The long march of hours, from moonrise to the monochromatic grey of first light, has not been silent. Cities are never entirely quiet; in this, the heart of France since the Parisi first settled here, there are footsteps, murmured conversations beneath your hotel window, the muffled sputter of a Vespa, somewhere near Sacre Couer.

As in all cities, sleep here is a gift, to be taken as offered. As you drift from even relaxation to half-consciousness, the night completes its ritual.

Count your own heartbeats, and try to sleep while the City of Light permits.

Nice, deborah. Makes me want to go to Paris, and I'm not even much for traveling. Pretty.

I miss Paris. But if you're anywhere in the city centre, you'd best pray for double-glazed windows, or an apartment facing away from the street.

Deena, that was absolutely stunning. The voices were so beautifully differentiated.

And Deb, you make me long for foreign travel. Paris, Tuscany... insert wistful sigh here.

Foot tapping impatiently. Can't wait to see what next week's challenge is. I'm also going back to my writer's group this month, and I think I'm going to suggest the fast-write exercise there.

Edited because grammar apparently eludes me...

t grin

I believe I shall write a novel. A silly, short, aimed-at-teen-girls fun exploration-of-the-silliness-of-high-school with, of course, a romantic storyline somewhere involved cliched novel.

Why? Two reasons.

1) I really like those novels. They cheer me up through their silliness. I collect them. Seriously.

2) Gold Mine. Especially now, as every single one of them is being made into at least a semi-popular movie featuring Lindsay Lohan or Mandy Moore. See: Gossip Girl, Princess Diaries, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, How to Deal, Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen

Also, writing a novel sounds like fun. I won't finish, of course. Nor do I have a plot or character in mind yet, though the plot will probably involve some very unrealistic thing (girl becomes princess) or at least be standard high school fare (girl meets boy, girl can't get boy, girl gets sad, boy changes mind, girl is happy.) Really, what I need is a voice. A good voice, a good character, and a series of novels is laid out before me.

And then maybe, someday, I'll venture into more literary waters, attempting to make the same audience cry rather than giggle. (see: Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.)

Of course, I'll need a pseudonym of mystery. Nobody wants to read a teen girl novel written by a 21-year-old male college student at a technical school, now do they? Suggestions?

t still grinning

Suggestions?

Heather Novachild.

I'm a tad skeptical about this, but it's a start. I have a better insomnia drabble in the wings I think. More tomorrow. This will do as a first effort maybe, let me get past this mental roadblock.

Sleep

The clock is humming. It's quiet and persistent, a whine. Sleeeeeeeeep it says. Or sometimes, nooowwwwww.

I imagine I can hear the seconds and minutes slip away, tick tock, tock tock, but there is no ticking. Only the electric hum sighing, waiting. Counting an endless moment.

I cannot get comfortable, cannot imagine ever being comfortable again. I have flipped the pillow a dozen times and tried six different sleeping positions. I have breathed deep, cleansing breaths. I have thought about the breathing, counted the breaths. Told myself to relax. Try harder.

All I can hear is the endless reprimand: Sleep. Now.

t another shot at the sleep drabble.

3 AM. Awake for no good reason. Catch my breath and listen with everything I've got.

Snort, grunt, exhale.

Hubby didn't put on the oxygen mask before he went to sleep. I should wake him and have him put it on. Still, he can go seven seconds without breathing in his sleep. I've timed it. Often.

I've watched him sleep in our own bed, on stretchers, in hospital beds. He's promised I won't wake up one morning next to abandoned bones, but I'm not sure it's up to him.

I time his breaths. So far never more than seven seconds without breath, and I pull back my hand. One day it'll be eight seconds, nine, and all the shaking in the world won't help.