A few weeks after my Mom died I was laying in bed one night, particularly depressed just watching the Tonight show in the dark. I suddenly had the urge to pick up my writing journal and a pen. i opened it, uncapped my pen and no joke, about 35-45 minutes later I seemed to snap out of something. Suddenly I realized I had not been able to account for that time. In the journal, I had about 5 pages of what looked like scribbling, but on a closer look saw phrases "take care of Daddy I love him" and "my baby, my little (my name here)", and yes, a lot of nonsense doodles but short sentences that I could actually make out pertaining to me, my Dad and my late Mom.
It didn't happen again for a long time, until late in the evening on September 10th 2001 (more than 2 years after my first experience.) i am not making this up. More of that night's writing was unintelligible scribble but something just made me pick up a pen and pad, while in bed with the lights off, and start writing. To this day I think maybe someone was trying to tell me something. I've looked at that pad many times to see something but have found nothing exceptional.
This was my only experience with the supernatural and I have not had this urge to write since that time on 9/10. I looked it up on the Internet after the first time it happened and it's called "automatic writing." It comforted me tremendously and I haven't told many people about it, because I think a lot of people would think I'm nuts!
One night in April of last year I had a dream of a friend I had not seen in quite some time. She was standing in front of the Seventh Avenue entrance to Penn Station (in NYC) at a bus/taxi stand. She was dressed in a black raincoat, black pants, sneakers, and wore Raybans. She was smiling, waving, holding a set of car keys or a piece of chalk in her hand. She carried a black Coach shoulder bag and had a wheeled carry-on at her side.
I remember waking up, going "What the *&%$ is she doing in my head?"
Twelve days later, her brother called to tell me she died. The night I dreamed of her was when she was in a coma, hours from having the plug pulled.
I've always wanted to do "automatic writing" that meant something. I do that when I write stories. I go back to read them and wonder who could have written them, since I remember typing them, but not always what I type. But, I never have automatic writing the way you have.