My creative muse never appears in the morning light. She calls to me in the witching hours as I lie there not sleeping. Snug in the covers, I smile to myself, the brilliant bit of writing running through my head, the scene clear just behind my closed eyelids. Rolling over, I mash my pillow and tell myself it’s a lock, it’s right there. I’ll type it up in the morning.
Then I’m slipping out of bed, feeling the floor for my slippers and sneaking out of the bedroom because what if I forget?