Some especially terrible dream this morning, the worst since the "white room" dreams ceased. But I'm much less dreamsick, much more awake and in the "here and now" than I have any right to be. I've already lost much of the dream, and mostly only the dread remains. But there had been a release of some toxic gas and great swaths of the countryside were dying. All living things turning brown and brittle, crumbling at the touch. I was contaminated, because everyone was contaminated. And all through it that certainty that struggle is futile, but there I was struggling anyway. My dream selves never have the good sense to admit defeat and just lie down and be done with it.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,015 words on the new Sirenia Digest story. I think the drought has ended.
I have this Thomas Mann quote, courtesy asanityassassin: A writer is someone for whom the act of writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
The sun is back today, and the temperature should climb as high as 66F, a welcome relief after yesterday. It's very blustery, though. I wish I had a kite. I used to love flying kites, in some other life.
Perhaps I will make another entry later in the day. The platypus is doing something rude and noisy with a drinking straw, and I should probably go have a look...
quixotic
asanityassassin: A writer is someone for whom the act of writing is more difficult than it is for other people.