Last night I dreamed I was walking somewhere very icy and I had to watch out for cars sliding over an embankment and into me. Then I was in a magic dream garden someone had decorated with lights and cut-out dioramas -- I think it was winter and spring in the garden at the same time, because I have a strong recollection of twiggy branches in the snow (lit up with small strings of lights) and verdant leaves and spring flowers (also lit up with lights). I'm going to blame recent paper cutout art projects for last night.
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On the writing front, during a recent writing excersice, I managed to crank out about 600 words in about 30 minutes. I'm reminding myself about that when I notice that I "only have a half hour to write."
Writing in the mornings this week hasn't worked out so well... except for the morning when I woke up sore, decided to take a bath, and floated with my ears underwater and the fawcet dribbling and the bathroom fan on and asked myself what the characters were going to do and worked out story problems. (Yes, it's true, my joints are officially barometers, and if I wake up with my feet hurting then it probably rained over night.)
And, in my mind, Chris Hadfield is standing over my bed as I squint at the clock to see if I can sleep for just five more minutes, and he says, "...don't let life kick you into becoming the adult you don't want to be." Ug. I think becoming a Morning Lark would be easier in microgravity.
And now, to the Day Jobbe.
