Flailing around for a topic the other day, I asked some Facebook buddies what might make for an interesting blog post. One suggested discussing the importance of coffee, the importance of sleep, or the importance of both.

I don't sleep like I should. For unrelated reasons, I don't sleep like anybody should. I try to, but it doesn't work out. But! That's not the fun part. The fun part is the writey-bits. When it's brainstorming time? When I've got a new story bouncing around upstairs, a new character idea, a new action scene carving itself out? When an offhanded comment really gets the wheels turning and suddenly I've got a whole conversation brewing? Then I really don't sleep. I put in a good-faith effort, but I just have to give up and come to the computer.

My wife's used to it. She indulges me. She knows the signs, when she wakes up and I'm not there any more, when she hears keys in the middle of the night, when I'm sitting hunched over the keyboard ignoring everything and just ratta-tat-tatting away.

There's no point in fighting it, I've learned over the years. When I'm excited about a project spec and a story wants out, the story wants out, and mulling it over won't do any good; better to just hit the keyboard and write it up, then go back to sleep. Most of my anthology pieces and intro fics happen this way, in one sitting. I mull over an idea for an evening, maybe an extra day, and then the next time I try to sleep -- in that idle time, "power saver mode," eyes closed, no distractions, just me and my wife and a couple dogs splayed around the room -- sleep doesn't happen. Instead, stories do.

So I don't try to fight it, I don't try to remember stuff the next day, I don't try to make myself sleep.

I get up, and I write.

Now, as for the other part? I have a confession to make -- it's blasphemous of me, I know, but I'm just not a coffee drinker -- but I will talk about what I eat when I write. Not when I blog. Not when I socialize on forums. Not when I brainstorm, or pitch, or scribble notes, or edit. Not when I'm just laying down some idle thoughts.

No, when I write.

When it's too big to handle in one sitting, sneaking in some short fiction while my wife gets a nap. When I've got two weeks to the deadline and it's time to open up a fresh Word doc and start typing up this novel. When I'm down to the nitty-gritty, when all of "my process" is done, and all that's left is busting out the words-per-minute, and it's down to the title of this blog; furious button mashing.

When I get into crunch time like that, when everything else is done and all that remains is the typing, I don't eat very well. I tend to wake up, sit down at the computer, and just go to town. My wife makes me stop for dinner (and normally a tv show from the DVR, socializing a little like a normal person), and then I...uhh...just go back to the computer, y'know?

That's it. I eat one good meal a day, and I snack. Every few hours I get up, stretch my legs, take the dogs outside for a tiny little bit of sunshine, and then I snack. Forage. Prowl. I'll eat damned near anything I come across while I stumble around the kitchen getting a little blood back into my extremities. I'm not proud. I've eaten a few scoops of peanut butter with a spoon before, sure. Egg-o waffles with my bare hands, like an animal. Milk right out of the carton, because I'm a monster. Whatever's handy, I'll wolf it down, then stagger back to my chair and go back to work.

But my favorite? My go-to? The one my lovely wife stocks up on, when she knows they're needed? Reduced Fat Oreos and a glass of milk.

They're the secret to my success (inasmuch as I'm a success, and inasmuch as success has a secret). And it's not even for the taste of them, or the sugar rush, or the caloric intake. It's for the ritual.

When I'm in the zone and hammering away at my 150 wpm, I hate idle hands. Can't stand 'em. Can't deal with 'em. My hands have to keep moving. I have to be doing something. I have to feel active, even if it's just the little wiggly digits at the end of my arms. So I'm either pounding this keyboard and letting words out, or I'm going crazy.

When I need to stop -- and everyone needs to stop, sometimes -- and read back over something, check back over a paragraph, scan a page, reread a scene, make sure a conversation is clear, make sure dialogue works, double check who's saying "fuck" and who's saying "frag" in a Shadowrun book...when I need to stop and read?

I eat a cookie.

Slowly. A step at a time. It's a process. I twist that mofo's head off, I gnaw off the filling, I smush the bastard back together, I dip it, soak it, dip it, soak it, and then (just before it falls apart with just a tiny bit of crunchy cookie between my fingers) I scarf that thing down. Mix of cookie and milk, tasty and delicious and om nom nom.

But it's the ritual that matters. It's the window of time it creates, when my hands aren't idle and I'm skimming a page. It sets a timer for me. I can't be too slow about it or it falls apart and I get Oreo mush in my glass of milk (which is hardly the end of the world, but shut up, I have a point, here). I can't take my time. I can't sit still for too long.

I take long enough, and then I eat my cookie, and then I get back to typing. Blazing ahead. Forging the new path. I can stop and get another cookie in a paragraph, in a page, in a conversation, in a chapter. What matters for now is writing. Typing. Letting the words out, laying down ink, keeping that cursor moving instead of just blinking at me expectantly.

And when the time comes, another mini-break. Another twisting, munching, dipping ritual. Another little sliver of relaxation carved out, while my eyes and brain are working, while my fingers are itching to get back down to business. Giving my hands something to do, giving myself a little treat, and keeping fuel in the engine so I can get back to typing when the cookie's done.

That's my thing. Not coffee. Not Mt. Dew (those days are well behind me). Not booze (though I've been known to take a drink or two, when working on Jimmy Kincaid stories). Not cigarettes. Not anything harder than that.

Reduced Fat Oreos and a glass of milk. They're my mojo.