I tell stories, it's kind of my thing.

I was supposed to release a book last month. In February, and somehow it's March, and I have to feel bad about it even though I don't want to. I am often guilty of sitting down to accomplish three pages of to do lists only to stare at Twitter with wide eyes and wait for it to do a trick. 

I know this about myself. I've spent a lifetime working my way around it to great success. Coping mechanisms? I've got 'em. 

So imagine my surprise, when I got thrown off when I started accomplishing too much. It's like saying you're going to read one more chapter before bed and then not stopping until you read the whole series. It's one more brick, one more book, one more  scheme I'll talk myself out of in the morning. It was whole weeks like that, until I was both desperately behind schedule and also hell-must-have-just-frozen-over because I was so ahead of schedule. 

Yes, it is possible to be both those things. I swear, I don't work at being contrary. (At least not since 2005) so here's the deal. I know you're all waiting and waiting for the next book in the Hollows Series and it's going to be out soon. In fact, I am working on getting the preorder up today. It's really coming out, really soon. But so are some other books. 

At one very scary point last month I was wrapping up five different books, at the same time. I didn't go to bed before three in the morning for six weeks, and when I broke that streak it was when I decided to go to bed early-as in one thirty. Life didn't let me sleep in, life didn't let me let up. 

So the good news is, I'm not dead. The bad news is, I need just a little longer to sort through the business. Trust me when I say this is actually really, really, awesome. 

Insomnia, My Old Friend

I have been an insomniac since-well, almost ever.

This is only a slight exaggeration as one of my earlier memories is where I am laying in bed, unable to sleep. My mother's solution for this was to put me to bed while it was still daylight outside. This made it worse, much, much worse.

Extra italics worse. 

Instead of me getting more sleep, I just got good at hiding the fact that I am an insomniac; and I got used to functioning without sleep. It's kind of a superpower that is slowly killing you. In college I went to school fulltime, had a fulltime job, and had a parttime job.

Which really explains why I quit and went back to writing. Ah, writing. The truth is, I think writing might be a symptom of my insomnia. I can't exactly test my theory, because, I haven't found a way to sleep like a normal person.

Also, I have learned to never, ever, tell a doctor you can't sleep. Because they don't tell you to change your diet, or cut caffeine, they get out there little white pad and scribble some almost illegible magic words and presto chango, medicine that can probably kill you.

The first night I took Ambien, I thought I died; then I thought maybe that is how normal people sleep. Like they are dieing of old age every night on their down-alternative pillows, and I just don't get it.

The second night I took Ambien I woke up the shower, with all my clothes on.

There, as you can imagine, was no third time.

I am used to my insomnia. It's familiar. It's 1:30, and 2:45, it's one more chapter, and two more pages. It's bone deep, and it's now 6:20AM. I should maybe go to bed.

Insomnia, the flavor of the week. Is it raining, is it snowing? Is a hurricane a blowing?

Tomorrow starts the most wonderful time of year, 2015 Halloween Reads Season! But I couldn't help but stopping in today, and talking about how seriously screwed up in the head I am. I mean, seriously, there is no other explanation.

 I have really wicked insomnia. I am pretty sure it settled into my bones early, at the ripe old age of nine or ten. Sometimes I just can't sleep. I'll be tired. I might even stagger like I'm drunk, if dare put down the book I'm reading and climb out of bed. Sometimes I'm not tired at all, and I find myself at the end five AM before winding down with no place to go.

But worst, worst of all, is when I wake up,

And wake up,

And wake up.

Last night was no exception. Last night was the worst yet. Sometimes I wake up every hour, or two. Last night I woke up in roughly 47 minute increments--and while that, in itself, wasn't so strange, w hat I was doing when I woke up was.

I was singing, but not just any song. I was waking myself up singing this:

There's no earthly way of knowing

Which direction we are going

There's no knowing where we're rowing

Or which way the river's flowing

Is it raining, is it snowing

Is a hurricane a-blowing

Not a speck of light is showing

So the danger must be growing

Are the fires of Hell a-glowing

Is the grisly reaper mowing

Yes, the danger must be growing

For the rowers keep on rowing

And they're certainly not showing

Any signs that they are slowing

It was so strange. If you had asked me that day I'd have told you I couldn't recall more than a handful of these words, but there I was, singing them. Clearly, I am not well.