When I can’t sleep, I read my own writing. It’s not that they're lullabies; it’s an early draft before the words that don’t belong are asked to leave.
“Pardon me, sir, the door is that way.”
It’s so effective I keel over. Plop! Not a care in the world.
I wake up, good to go; I’m not a professional writer; I've got other things to attend to. Come the weekend; I pull out my draft.
You know what happens next.
I’m still working on my first story.