A rather harsh critic of his own work, he was somewhat less than pleased with his latest effort.

He reached for the cords of the computer and yanked them out. Marching the computer through his wine haze to the dumpster. Copies and disks followed to their fitting end.

He'd done a service to the literary world or illiterary world. Knock-offs, rip-offs, drivel and tripe. No original voice.

If he couldn't do it right, he wouldn't do it at all.

When sleep escaped him, he found making notes of his dreams allowed him what little precious sleep he got over the next year.

Little pieces of curled paper lying everywhere. Post-it notes wallpapered his apartment. His head spun.

Dejection.

Elation.

It was all there, for better or worse, he was surrounded by a story.

A story he'd written through dreams and nightmares.

He'd found his voice and realized he had to write for his own sanity. He'd spent a year haunted by the act of not writing, forced to make notes as payment for sleep.

He gathered his notes, wrote the story and slept well...