Restless nights: a writer's journey through insomnia & literary salvation

Shakespeare understood the allure of sleep—and its frustrating elusiveness. But for many, achieving those restorative seven to nine hours is a Sisyphean task, a reality I know all too well. As someone navigating the choppy waters of insomnia for years, I've become intimately acquainted with the exhaustion and, yes, the occasional brush with feeling utterly adrift.

The lingering shadow of sleeplessness

Insomnia isn’t a new affliction. Plato, centuries ago, deemed prolonged sleep a societal disgrace. Even Shakespeare, while extolling sleep’s virtues, highlighted its vulnerability, noting the kings felled in slumber. My own journey began in my thirties, triggered by the predictable upheaval of motherhood – the two-hourly wake-up calls, the hormonal shifts that can, for some, permanently disrupt sleep patterns. It’s a common narrative, one that many women experience postpartum, and I'm grateful it eventually subsided.

Stress, inevitably, re-ignited the issue. The anxieties surrounding a child’s serious illness, coupled with the incessant beeping of hospital alarms, seeped into my dreams, creating a landscape of fragmented rest. In those dark hours, devoid of the usual distractions, I found an unlikely solace: the Booker Prize shortlist. Paul Auster’s 4 3 2 1 offered a glimmer of hope, a suggestion that even chaos could resolve itself, while George Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo reminded me I wasn't alone in my struggles.

Finding comfort in ink and paper

Those 2 a.m. to 5 a.m. stretches transformed into a peculiar kind of sanctuary, a period dedicated to literary therapy. Even now, years later, the sleep hasn't fully returned, despite escaping the hospital's relentless alarms. It's a frustrating pattern, one that seems to worsen with age, accompanied by the unwelcome arrival of more hormonal shifts. The result? Less a feeling of Thatcher-esque accomplishment after a few hours of snatched rest, and more a pervasive anxiety and sluggishness that makes crafting a single, poetic sentence feel like scaling Everest.

The conventional advice—warm baths, digestion time, a decluttered bedroom—became a well-trodden path. I experimented with 'sleepy-time tea' (with predictable results), then moved onto gummies and breathing exercises. I even succumbed to the allure of black-out curtains, a superior mattress, and goose down pillows, hoping for a repeat of that rare, blissful night in a gallery flat. The walls were painted a serene blue, lavender planted beneath the windows – the works. Yet, the elusive sleep remained just out of reach.

The key, I discovered, wasn't chasing sleep itself, but embracing the quiet hours. Reintroducing bookshelves – initially banished in a misguided attempt at minimalist perfection – proved surprisingly comforting. And, crucially, I stopped fighting the insomnia and started reading about it. Marie Darrieussecq’s Sleepless revealed a surprising fraternity of writers who’ve battled this same affliction: Kafka, Plath, Sontag, Dostoevsky—a roster that, while highlighting the link between sleeplessness and psychological complexity, also suggests a peculiar connection to creative genius. Barthes famously declared, “insomnia is classier than sleep,” a sentiment I now understand, if not entirely endorse.

Beyond the guidelines: embracing the night

The NHS guidelines remain aspirational for me. Some are natural ‘short sleepers’, thriving on just four to six hours. I’ve learned to function, to snatch moments of rest on the Circle Line, and to channel those extra hours into reading—a far more restorative activity than staring at a screen. And when those hours allow, I can steal an afternoon on the beach with my children. That, too, is a balm for the mind, a fleeting respite from the relentless pursuit of perfect sleep.

The truth is, I’ve traded the fight for a quiet acceptance. As a recent study from the University of Oxford revealed, approximately 30% of adults experience insomnia at some point in their lives. It’s a common struggle, a shared experience. And perhaps, just perhaps, there’s a certain beauty in finding solace, and even a little creativity, in the darkness.