On the Floor
My wife is bent out of shape because I have been falling asleep at 7 and then waking up at 10 all ready to play when she is going to bed. What can I say? If I was tired now, I would go try and catch up to a normal sleeping routine, instead of two long naps a day.
During this evening’s nap, I had a really cool dream. In the dream I was feverishly writing a novel, and the visions I had of the action in the novel were very clear, in fact I could see them like in a dream, and yes, if you are paying attention that means that there was a dream within a dream. When I woke up, I was really excited about working on this new novel, but then I realized that, I hadn’t even started on it, I had only dreamed of being obsessively in the middle of it. And then I had this debate with myself: Was that really a good story that you were writing in the dream, or did your unconscious mind just tell you it was a good story to get some other point across?
Eh, I don’t know. I think I’ll keep the plot under my hat for now.
Reflecting on all of this brings to mind some of my reservations about having a blog. First and foremost being, my shitty writing is (t)here for all the world to see. There’s nothing better than suddenly remembering some stupid post I wrote three months ago, and realizing that I am too lazy to go back and delete it. Not only that, but this stuff isn’t necessarily fiction, and as such it sort of attaches itself to me in a distorted way. You can’t shirk something that is written online about you, especially if you wrote it yourself. At the same time, the act of writing, especially by somebody whose either not very good at it, or really good at it, is a type of lens that can amplify or minimize certain characteristics, especially in reference to oneself. Eventually there comes a point where you realize that you’ve written something, but it isn’t the thing, it is something else entirely, it’s own thing.
Thank god nobody ever stops to call me on all this bullshit (except when Univeral Hub picks me up and I inadvertently annoy people by the hundreds). You probably just sit at a desk and smirk somewhere.
This website’s posts are the sputtering breath of a drowning man. I am holding myself above the surface so that the lifeguard might see me, but in truth, the best place for me, for everybody else’s sake, might be below where more thorough observations are proffered. There is something to be said for the feeling of writing something that nobody will see, a feeling of arch mischief, of nullifying communication, like turning out the lights on a room full of people.
I am considering calling this new book– what else, YOKE OF THE HORDE II.