Last night, as I drifted into that semiconscious state between wakefulness and sleep, I had a terrific thought. It was a line of perfect dialogue, or an image of a scene in a story that was so vivid and fully formed that I just knew I would be able to describe it perfectly and bring it to life on a page. Perhaps it was a description of a character. A character so wonderful, so immensely likable, while still realistically flawed. Whatever the thought was, I decided I had to write it down; I couldn’t risk waking up in the morning to find it had vanished from my mind. So I got out of bed and stumbled through the house, groggy and half asleep, to find a pen and a scrap of paper (why don’t I keep these things in a handy spot next to the bed?). I scribbled down my thought and, satisfied, went back to bed and had what could be considered a pretty good night’s sleep.
This morning I woke up and the only memory that remained of my perfect, wonderful thought was that I had been wise enough to write it down. I searched for my scrap of paper, eager and excited to bask in the glory of my immeasurable wit and intellect. I found it sitting on my dresser. I picked it up and read:
Don’t forget to remember your thought.
Sigh. Thank you, Late Night Claire. You have been ever so helpful.