Dreaming again

I was conscious that I was dreaming, yet I somehow still believed it was really happening.

I was sitting in a magnificent room with checkered marble floors. Vases and art decorated corners and walls. 

A man sat next to me: sleazy with a small, pencil-thin mustache, beady black eyes and a comb-over.

He asked, ‘What do you see?’ and waited for my answer, smugly smiling with a glint in his eye.

So I looked at the far end of the room. In front of the door was a ghost: a faint outline of a man, standing, doing nothing more. He was not walking towards me. No sense of impending doom. If that ghost was friendly or not, I couldn't tell. Simply, I was afraid because it was not supposed to be there. It offended my senses, defied my rationale.  

I woke up screaming. Terrified, I drew the blanket tight around my body. My heart thumped so hard. Sweat beaded along my tingly-tight chest. Had I been dreaming about my own bedroom transformed into something grander in the dream?

For a long time I lay there waiting, unable to turn on the light and look towards the door for fear there would be something there I shouldn't see, didn't want to see. 

Early Morning

Soft light breaks over the horizon, quiet, alone with my thoughts, I begin to write.

Some people work in the evening. I used to do that. All night ragers that ended in the morning. What began as something that felt like being shot out of a cannon from indulging in less than healthy activities slowly faded into a snail's crawl. Guilt would surely follow. But hey, I wrote a fucking shitload!

You will come back down

I was kidding myself. Re-reading the words I wrote during those times were good, but functional. They were not grand. Because I was not completely lucid. I was flying high, thinking whatever I wrote was unbelievable.     Instead, I was producing with only half-a-mind, unable to weigh my writing decisions accurately. Later when I had come down, I would have to re-write.

The morning is when I write now, and I produce more quality work. I'm not strung out because I got a good night's rest. I'm not manic, as I am actually a little sleepy when I begin. I'm relaxed because I'm still in the limbo between dream state and being awake. I feel much more connected to my thoughts and my words in the morning.

As well, writing first thing in the morning, even if it is only for thirty minutes before I shower, dress and go to work, starts off the day well. I may have a shit day at work, but it's still good and productive because I wrote. No matter what happens, I still have a piece of mind. For others, their piece of mind is different. They may value talking with a friend, eating healthily, exercising their body. I get satisfaction from knowing I am reaching my goal. No matter how slowly I crawl to it. A step forward is still a step forward.

Slow, but she's still going somewhere

When do you write? Do you have a schedule, or are you more of a poet, writing at whim when the fancy strikes you? Does using drugs come into play? 

What a wonderful feeling...

No I’m not talking about cumming. But I am talking about that feeling of writing, and writing well.

Today was a shit day; my boss gave me a shit schedule, and I had to endure a shit bunch of meetings. In so much, I got the shortend of the stick. Knob end, right up the backend. But I digress...

Yes'm boss...

After such a bad day at work, I came home to an empty apartment. My wife’s studying abroad, and I miss her terribly. Even more so on bad days because I cannot get a nice kiss and hug from her. But I digress...

The un-happy

I procrastinated, watched a TV episode, ate dinner, all while thinking about writing. But then I settled down to work.

HAPPY!

And then for two straight hours I wrote. Well, I re-wrote, revised, clarified, bettered the scene of the novel. I felt the magic of writing, of putting words onto the screen, reading them out loud, hearing the sentences and shortening at will, making it sound crisper, fresher, snappier, and then picturing the images that were conjured up. My god...I forgot what a writing-orgasm is like.

A shit day, suddenly has turned into a fantastic day. Two hours of writing, feeling the fucking juice flowing from my spirit into my words. 

This is me me...minus the fantastic rack.