Lying on the floor wedged between the bend in the couch and the corner of the coffee table, the dry scent of 10,000 dust mites engulfed my senses. Eyes closed, writing close at hand, I was prepared to leap up and pretend to be a normal human the moment a stray roommate passed by. And I waited.

Waited for a glimmer of my unconsciousness to hover over the face of my novel outline and say it was good.

It was not good. It was very bad, horrible, no good, and generally trash.

So much trash, in fact, that I gave myself an F-. The last quarter of the unfortunate thing was chock full of ludicrous attempts at crafting an intelligent conclusion to a meandering story. The mad result of writing a full-length novel in one month. I expected something good to come out of this crazed frenzy and waited for a spark of genius to ignite.

It was not to be. For good ideas form slowly in the unconscious part of the brain that cannot be wielded by ugly sentience. This unseen intuition feeds concepts into its unsuspecting victims at random. Turning left, the other left, and occasionally right, but always away. Like a cat, it adores you, then bites your wrist for no freaking reason seconds later.

On the floor, encased in dust, dirt, and chip crumbs, I felt the pull of the unconscious. It whispered the answer to my writing woes. Suddenly I knew my outline really was trash and with that understanding came the drive to sort through and find the lucid sparks lurking under the refuse.

Accompanied by a desperate need to vacuum the dust mites out of the carpet, of course.

What strange places have you experienced epiphanies? Tell me in the comments below.

Cheers,

Lizzy

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay