I’ve always heard it was a myth. Some sources claim it’s midnight. Some claim the designated time is 3 a.m. I’m inclined to believe it lies somewhere in between. The witching hour is supposed to be the time at which witches are most powerful, at which time when magic is most likely inclined to occur.
Magic? It’s more like turmoil. For me, the phenomenon occurs between 1 and 3 a.m.
Screw magic. I’m more inclined to believe sweating is the sole lame and annoying product of the witching hour. Many nights, I awake during this time sweating profusely, even though our bedroom is more than sufficiently cooled, even in summer months. Menopause? Oh, yeah. Hot flashes? You betcha, babe. But it’s not the sweating that keeps me awake.
It’s the fact that I can’t find the freaking OFF button on my brain.
Why, oh why does my brain decide that at 8 p.m., I’m done? DONE. Cannot think another thought, write another word. But somehow, at 1 a.m. or so, no matter how exhausted I am, no matter what prescription drugs I’ve taken to enhance my sleeping faculties, my brain turns on with the automation of a technologically scheduled, timed “on” computer screen. And with just that intensity, and clarity, and eye-squinting brilliance, refuses to be ignored.
I’ve tried diversionary tactics. Get up, boot up the computer, sit there with a cup of chamomile tea at my side, and try to write. Will my errant brain have it? No. I’m wide awake. I’m fretting about everything from the water bill to the fit of my horse’s saddle. But can I write a word on my manuscript? Hell no.
I resort to the holistic approach. Breathe. Into your stomach, without any shoulder lifting. Let your belly swell with each breath (I have a particular problem with this, as I come from a generation for whom the flat belly warrants life-threatening surgery). I end up hyper ventilating. Not good. Not relaxing. Not productive.
Next come the mantras. I am relaxed. I am strong. I am in control. To which my inner self screams in reply, “Yeah, bitch, but what about that deadline you have looming? What about the plane tickets you have been avoiding buying? And you are going to pay for them how??? How much do you owe in credit card debt?
And what about the water bill?”
I give up.
Is this a mid-life, hormonally induced sickness? Or am I in need in counseling? Perhaps I just need some rich uncle—preferably a REALLY rich, UNKNOWN great uncle—to pass and leave me his fortune.
No matter. Life goes on. For those of us lucky enough to have been granted that privilege. I’ve been privy lately to several people, family and friends, who have been cheated of the choice, no matter how many rich uncles they might have. So honestly, who am I to complain?
I have NO right. What the hell am I complaining about?
Right. Get a grip, girl. Change the damp sheets, brew another cup of chamomile tea, pull on your big girl panties, and deal with it . . .
Claire Gem is a multi-award winning author of contemporary romance and supernatural suspense. Check out her titles at her Amazon Author Page.