I was looking at Portable Stonehenge last night and there's still about six weeks until the Winter Solstice, which means twelve more weeks of darkness. I recall the days in May, June and July when I would spring awake -- OK, probably stumble around -- and write at 4:50.
I've been focused on coming up with a hundred word story for a contest. It's a long-shot, and the competition is fierce, but the prize is twenty thousand dollars. Looking at past winners, what places are essentially prose poems of about seven sentences. I'm trying to approach the contest as a string of seven tweets.
I polished the stories and sent them in. I'm hoping the submission web site was working, as a funny error flashed across my browser's screen and I've yet (as of Monday) to receive an e-mail acknowledgement. However, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that the web-host was being pounded into the ground.
This morning I dreamed a not-too-unpleasant Dr. Who dream. At the end of the dream I was writing down my dream and managed to reset the computer, with the result that I lost my file. Then I woke up with scattered bits of the dream falling out of my memory. The strongest bit was being outside as burning embers fell; this is influenced, no doubt, by watchin "The Secret of Kells" last night.
Not the best writing session. 400 words in 60 minutes. I caught myself writing too much eye-candy and not enough character emotion or plot.