Of Literary Insomnia

I remember I once wrote what I would say in the event I become famous and am then asked how I write such words. I have no idea what exactly it was I said, and the reason is this:

The way I actually write is by scribbling down odd ideas throughout the day, if I can remember them long enough to get to a pad and pen. Some days I have material for weeks, other days are dry as gin. On these days, most of the days, really, I open a new document around eleven at night. About one-thirty I give up and start typing anything I have, spitefully at the empty white screen which reminds me that even I loath most of the notions for subject matter I've had so far that night.

By 1:58 I've usually penned something adequate and pleasantly humorous. By 2:02 I have completely forgotten what it is I wrote.

So when you tell me that you read this, and I have no idea what you're talking about, and I say things like, "What are you talking about?" and "Well, that sounds like something I'd write, yeah. But what did I say?" you'll forgive me for my self-induced and entirely unavoidable literary insomnia.