Woke from a dream on Sunday. I should have been sleeping, but couldn’t. It was one of ‘those’ dreams.
If you’re a writer you’ll know what I’m talking about.
Sitting in a poorly lit living room–as not to wake up the rest of the house–I wrote it out. One run-on sentence into the next, into the one after that, and then I wrote it all again. Flesh.
(…and then I accidentally ‘save-as’ over an older story outline…which isn’t so bad, because the book was finished over a month ago, but in another month, when I can’t find the new outline…please remind me it’s saved under a weird name…)
But there it is–the why.
“Why do you write?”
“Because I have these dreams. These vivid cool ass dreams. They wake me up at 4am, and I have to get them out. The voices. I have to get the voices out of my head.”
The voices are the hardest part, because they are distracting.
[editing two MS. One chillin’ in the ice box, the other currently being dissected.]
…and then I have a dream.
All I want to do is become consumed with this new world, these new people, all the craziness that is happening around them–but I can’t.
How cruel is this world that we live in? Why can’t my imagination calm the f— down?! Oh, all you voices… in the end we both know I’m a slave to you.