The Way She Are

Ideally, she likes to write around the hours of 11 p.m. and 5 a.m. She feels her best work is produced between those two times. Her reasoning for that is this:


When she wakes up at 4 in the morning, the world has not yet imposed its limitations on her. Crazy things, such as crunking angels, seem real. It also seems perfectly plausible that a pimp, two wonderfully insane pyromaniacs, a homosexual exotic animal trader, three genetically-modified government hitmen, a drug-addict apothecary, one jaded Nephilim, a geisha turned sorceress, and a sullen assassin seeking redemption can agree to structure an alliance and form an organized crime ring powerful and sly enough to topple the current top dogs.

When she stays up past her 9:00 bed time, and things begin to go a bit hazy and become suspended, she feels the world begin to slip. Most of the rules bend, a few splinter, and a special couple snap. If enough of them become deformed, she has a good writing night. She’ll maybe write about Beelzebub and his boys wreaking sweet havoc in a young L.A. night club. Or maybe she’ll rapidly type free verse in which an innocent, damned-by-fate, young woman spends what she knows to be her last days alive while a bloody death beckons the days to quicken their own passing.


Strict order has never been attractive to her, not when there’s endless fantasias out there, and at 2 a.m., anything seems possible. The feel of falling into those open, bright abysses is unbearably staggering and has never failed to make her stop and just breathe for a moment, because if she doesn’t do that, her head will spin and she’ll feel drunk on a mere idea that hasn’t been expanded to its limits.


Who needs to be tied to the rational when there’s the depths of the hours in a rainy night to explore with a cigarette in hand?


Not her. Not ever.