I don't fall asleep well. I never really have. My mind never quite learned how to rest, and insomnia has become a way of life. But in that twilight of unconsciousness, if I pay careful enough attention, I stumble upon the loveliest of creative thoughts. Some I write down, and some are so bright and enticing that they merely require a mental archive. But there are always ideas—to write, to paint, to create—that are sure to come to fruition if I'm but willing to put in some effort.
The downside of such terrorizing inspiration is my inability to really linger on any one thing. I'm almost through the book I just wrote (still untitled), and will be starting in on the final revision of Bloodline II: Legends (2nd edition) as soon as I'm finished. I'm not even done editing this book, yet still, my thoughts are somewhere else. Always on to the next thing. I guess that's how you get shit done.
Some days I view my passion for art as a gift, other days, a curse. Why do I have to care so much? Why does any of it matter? Does any of it matter? I don't know, but as long as it makes me happy, I'll keep at it.