So I've been writing more often. Twice in the past two weeks, for a total of 3.3 pages. Given it's nearly nine times more than I've written (created, not proofread) in the past nine months, it's pretty tasty. But before that, heh, I've been dreaming again. Like, deep, intense dreams. I can't help but know, at the base of my spine, that my dreaming is tied directly to my writing. It always has been, more or less, but seeing it occur while actively observing it kind of wraps around me.
And it's more than just dreaming=writing. It's a state of inspiration. A heightened inspiration. I watch a movie and become inspired. Like, yes, nice. Love that movie. I want to write. Then I sit to write, and I'm staring at a page, and then I decide to proofread, and I walk away two hours later having proofread three chapters. Yaaay. Not the intent. I wanted to WRITE. Not read.
But when I wake from a dream, the day--the whole day--becomes a day of planning. A day of mulling characters. A day of swimming in the setting. It's different when I wake from a dream because when I take the morning shower, I'm racing down alleys of thought. I remember yesterday, when I woke, I sat in the shower and thought about Shell Princess, and the before-then undeveloped enemy. Antagonist. I thought, 9 Elders, 4 Runners, 1 Master. This means nothing to the average reader but it instantly and succinctly stamped them down to a definable enemy. As if, I don't know, something of my subconscious followed me to waking, and I was told what to do. Sounds strange as shit, I know.
Crazy even. No subconscious and I'm quite rudderless, adrift and uncaring. I mean, I care. I care a lot. But. Yeah. Adrift. Unable to define.
Unfortunately last night wasn't a dream night, so I spent today feeling inspired but uncertain how to let it out. People. I need socialization. People people people. But I've got long distance people, and faceless people, and a mass of emotions, feelings, memories. So all my writing swallows down the conflict to something internal. My characters explode with internal struggle, but the external practically doesn't exist.
I must invent some way to get this out. I must sensationalize my inventing, and turn it into a patterned habit (which is redundant, I know) from which to control my writing's output.
Or I have to quit my job. Which I talked to my dad about a lot last night. He went into investing, and making 9 percent instead of 3, and the chaos (or not) of his parents dying and his siblings and he fighting through who gets what. And the crazy sister, which is a very interesting dynamic. In fact, I'd love to write those characters in my book. Somewhere. Hmm.
That being said, he says I should be saving for retirement, depositing in savings accounts, 401(k) accounts, and paying off fast debt. Which I'm doing all of it. All of it. But, heh, it's a slow process. And I'm not sure how much longer I'll last in this job.
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