Many years ago, sleep was my friend. I could drink an espresso after dinner and fall asleep the moment I lay down. I never gave it a moment’s thought. But these days—well, suffice it to say, not so much. I’ve tried meditation, exercise, pharmaceuticals, sleep recordings, hypnosis… the list goes on. Some nights it works. Some nights… well, that’s partly what this article is about.

Like many of us, I read before bed. Fiction, always. Some story that will take me out of my head and into someone else’s. Something to drug me into a space where my worries and fears are irrelevant and I feel I’m falling backwards, gently, as into snow.

A lot of the time it works. But once in a while, especially if the reading goes on for more than half an hour, as soon as I turn out the light and snuggle down into my covers, I start hearing voices. Specifically, the author’s voice.

(I should add that I dream in words. Others remember colors, actions, images. Not me. It’s always words, which is why it’s so tantalizing and infuriating to believe (as I do, against all evidence to the contrary) that I write my best pieces when I’m falling asleep and promise myself I’ll remember them in the morning. Like that has ever happened.)

Do I spend too much time studying how others write? I suppose it’s possible. But if I read one author for too long, I start thinking/daydreaming/trying to sleep, and whatever it is I’m imagining, however far from the author’s own setting and characters, I do it in their voice.

An example will perhaps help. I enjoy Stuart Kaminsky’s novels about Moscow police inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. In case you’re not already a fan, allow me to give you a taste of the language, from The Dog Who Bit A Policeman:

Officer Druzhnin appeared on deck, looked at Rostnikov, who nodded, and let down a plank for the two men to board the small boat.

“Thank you for coming,” said Rostnikov to Paulinin. “I’m sorry to bring you out so early, but you are the only one I trust to give me a meaningful report about our floating friend.”

Paulinin grunted, adjusted his glasses, and stood at the rear of the boat next to Rostnikov, looking down at the dead man.

Behind Paulinin, Karpo said, “He’s a member of the Tatar Mafia. The tattoo is theirs.”

“A start,” said Rostnikov. “Paulinin?”

“By the condition of the corpse, I would say he has been in the water less than a day, perhaps much less. My guess? He died last night. But …” Paulinin looked around, found a grappling pole, and awkwardly but carefully nudged the corpse toward the boat. He used the flat side of the pole to keep from damaging the bloating corpse.

“Hold this,” Paulinin said, handing the pole to Karpo, who took it and firmly pulled the body closer to the boat.

“We must turn him over,” said Paulinin.

Notice that it’s very distinctive writing; there are few contractions, and even in this short passage you can get a feel for how Rostnikov speaks and—by extension—thinks. Imagine reading that for a couple of chapters and closing the book. If you’re me, what happens next in your head is a scenario that’s about Jeannette… but sounds like Rostnikov.

If doing so allowed me to be lulled to sleep, I wouldn’t complain. I’m a woman who’s happiest when there are several conversations going on inside her head anyway. But there’s a part of me that resists that extra voice and how it’s framing my thoughts, and the longer it goes on, the more sharply awake I feel… until I have to give up, turn on the light, and scrub the litter box or perform some other menial household chore that doesn’t involve usurping other writers’ characters and voices.

(And it isn’t even just when I’m trying to sleep! Recently after re-reading a couple of stories from one of James Herriot’s books, I found myself thinking, “oh, aye, I’ll have to get that done.” Wait, Jeannette: you’re from Yorkshire now?)

I don’t suppose that, were they still alive, Kaminsky or Herriot would particularly mind—hell, I’d be chuffed as anything if someone had tapes of my writing playing through their heads—but it’s a strange way to spend the hours of darkness, all the same, scrubbing my kitchen sink and hoping to stop thinking like somebody else.