Rain at 3 A.M.

Awoke this morning, the gentle sound of rain pitter patters out my window.
It swishes and sloshes across my roof, down my gutters,
Through the creaking branches and down the leaves.
Little wonder I do have trouble sleeping,
My dreams turbulent roll over me like a drifting sea,
awaking often and half-remembered
unable to return.

I stare blankly at the time,
red digital letters against the black
of this early morning.
I consider where I might go, what I might do
roll over and sigh. 
Why can I not find slumber this night
or any other?

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I suppose this is what happens when waking this  early on.  My posts here have been less frequent, probably because I feel like I am shouting into the darkness and hearing my own echo.  I went to a writers conference recently that said not to do that.

I found some very wonderful insights into my first book.  I realize now that I need professional opinion of an editor who has seen hundreds of books go past their desk.  Its so easy as a writer to say "well this is good and this is good" but a professional editor is really needed. That said, I think I have found myself fed up with writer's conferences. 

It seems so easy to stand in front of a crowd who paid to hear how to become successful.  I couldn't help but wonder if some of the speakers could be published today.  I don't begrudge them their success, but they'd be where I was sitting without the established ties they made 20 years ago when things were a little easier. I wanted to stand and dare them to try.  To use a different name, a different picture and see how far they got. They would have probably glared at me.   Frankly I probably wouldn't mind because then I know I was right.