The last few nights have been, shall we say, pretty mediocre. I’ve been getting my sleep, but the thing I’m really missing out on are my dreams. When I was back home–the Real Home, that is–I was sleeping in and getting some rest. Now that I’m back at The Undisclosed Location, the sleep is back to being languid, and while I’m getting rest, I’ve had better.
I’m missing my dreams, though.
I’ve been keeping up with my editing, though. Knocked off another six thousand or so words just last night, and a little over four thousand the night before . . . I’ve probably edited close to thirty-five thousand since just Thursday or Friday, and I’ve probably another twenty thousand or so to go. I’m being realistic in thinking I won’t make my 1 October date for submission to Harper Voyager, but it will go out next week.
This is all good, but something happened this morning that’s never happened before. Let me set it up:
I was in bed; I think I’d woke up the first time about 4:30 AM. I was dozing back and forth between being half asleep and half awake. I let the alarm go off, then laid there for a while, because I don’t like to get out of the bed right away.
It was during this time that I started to doze again, and when I feel that coming on I’ll do something to remind myself that I shouldn’t fall asleep, or I’ll be late for work. And I wouldn’t want that, would I?
So about the time I was suppose to be hauling myself out of bed, I found myself in a state that was . . . well, it was one of those strange moments when I could have been awake, but I didn’t feel like it. As my eyes opened, I caught myself saying, “Don’t worry, Emma. We’re gonna get home. I promise.”
That wasn’t me speaking; that was one of my characters, talking to another character.
It was strange that I did that, however. Yes, I was thinking of a scene with those two characters the night before, and they were on my mind before I dozed off to sleep. But I didn’t dream of them; I don’t remember what I dreamed about.
But when I said those words, I knew where I was: I was in a tent, in Quebec, up near the James Bay Project, and there was a blizzard raging around us. I had to get up, break camp, and head for home by . . . lets just say we had to fly. There was little food, and the feeling that our chances of making it home were low.
But I was feeling up. I knew we’d make it–or, at the least, I was trying to appear that way, because I knew it was going to be a long day.
This is going to be a long day; I know it. I felt it last night, and I’m feeling it today. Things to do, people to meet, and writing to be had. If I’m lucky, I’ll get into bed about midnight.
Then do it all again tomorrow.
Sometimes, I think I’d rather be flying through a blizzard with a good friend at my side.
As least I’d know that if I go down, if I don’t make it, I’m not going alone . . .