I’m mostly a nightmare gal. Have far too many bad dreams. Several a night.
Wake up screaming at a man in the doorway, or by the window, a lot.
Elevator-with-no-sides dreams. An elevator that’s tilting.
Zombie dreams. My aunt’s head in a watermelon. My girls missing.
The dreams where I’m walking from room to room in house. Searching. Hurrying. Worrying.
Knowing something bad is behind a door.
Oh, and the cloven hoof dream that Kyra wants me to share on FB.
But last night. Last night was good.
I haven’t written now in a month. Not at all (except an editor rewrite).
And last night I dreamed of the books that are waiting for me.
Wanting to be written.
There was that feeling I have when I sit down to write and things are going well. A feeling of being content.
When there’s hope.
A new world coming to life.
Like the way I feel because there are a few moments when I am in control, ’cause I know what’s happening a few pages ahead.
This morning, I woke up smiling.
Woke up with an email almost fully formed to my agent.
Woke to a whole list of books that were calling for me.
With thoughts of really writing.
This morning, I’m ready.
To find a few new characters.
Clean up a few scenes.
Investigate a few possibilities.
This morning is full of promises.
Way better, I tell ya, than that man in the doorway.