I know I'm not the only one: because so many ideas are unleashed at night, I keep a journal beside my bed. Sometimes the nighttime scrawl is illegible, but the idea is to make sure I don't lose anything. After all, those piercing images lose their sharpness after a night of conked out sleeping.
Last night, I'm fairly certain I solved every plot challenge known to man. In fact, that one missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle spun Matrix-like in the air a few breathless moments before plunking perfectly into place, completing my latest WIP conundrum. Like a flash flood, everything else that I didn't even know was missing crashed into place. It was glorious. It was spectacular. It was a dream.
Nothing is scribbled in my journal. No scrap of detail is left floating in my authorial stew this morning. There is nothing but a wispy, fleeting sense of euphoria. I had it all. I held it all. My hands are now empty.