I've noticed that since I've stopped having to drive through Atlanta traffic, I quite like the rain. The gray light, the soothing susurrus of raindrops, it's soothing. There's a tendency for it also to make me melancholy in a self-indulgent sort of way. I become introspective, but not in a particularly insightful manner. Wallowing in glumness. How very goth. This time, I'm dwelling on my dreams, both the REM variety, and the aspirations for the future variety. They managed to overlap this morning.
I've been having some very detailed sleepy-time dreams of late, with convoluted storylines and fairly in-depth plot development. It worries me that I may be a better storyteller when I'm sawing logs than when I'm wide awake. It's so fleeting too. In that twilight coming-out-of-REM state, I vow to myself that I won't forget what I dreamed so I can write it down and maybe turn it into a story. But when I open my eyes, all I can remember is the elusive sense of a really cool concept, and the fact that despite my firm resolutions, I've totally forgotten all the details of the marvelous dream. Wish I could stick a video recorder in my brain.
Days like these, I find myself wondering about my writing in general--where I'm going with it, if I'm deluding myself that I have the talent and vision to make my goal of writerly self-sufficiency become a reality. Maybe I should resign myself ultimately to being a cubicle-drone and treat writing as a hobby.
Or perhaps I'm still shaking off the maudlin haze from last night. Too much gin. Excellent company--terracinque swung by to hang--but too much gin.
A Harmony of Foxes
New words: 107
Despite what various and sundry famous historical figures have accomplished, writing and alcohol don't seem to mix for me. I did my 100 and called it a night.
Club 100 For Writers