It’s almost over. This “short scene” of action that would end up the centerpiece of a twenty-five thousand word novella has turned into a novella of its own–thought, to be fair, it’s still the centerpiece of a short novel. Funny how those things work out.
But it’s in the final stretch. The last chapter ended up about thirteen hundred words full, and I set the first short sentence of a next part of the chapter before I decided my eyes were going to begin fighting me before long if I continued upon this course.
It’s what’s for breakfast, though. After posting I’ll get into the chapter and rip into the sucker. I’ll finish up the last segment of this nightmare, spill the last blood, and set up Part Four. I still have another character to bring on stage in somewhat dramatic fashion, though I could say I’m really bringing four characters onto the stage, but one doesn’t have a lot of lines, and the other two–better not say.
“What of the unquiet slumber you speak of?” I hear you say. I don’t really hear you saying it, but I know it’s there, at least in my imagination . . . good question, though. Here’s what I mean.
First off, there’s this story idea that is tearing around in my head–again. It’s another of those erotic fantasies, like the one I just finished before the Camp, and it won’t go away. It wants me to write it down in my Ideas Project so that it becomes a thing, a real thing that stays around forever, but I’m resisting. At least for now. But the time will come–maybe today, maybe tomorrow–when I set the idea inside an idea file, and save the project. Again. Because I never have enough ideas, it appears.
Then there’s the dream . . .
For the longest time dreams have been impossible to remember, likely because of a combination of long work hours and exhaustion. But they’ve been coming back, because who knows, they just do. There’s a reason they tickle your brain in the middle of the night, because they are reminding you that you’re not the boss of your mind subconscious.
What did I have in my dreams? A whole lot of being told that I can’t do things that I want to do.
It felt like I was at Comic Con, though it could have been any con, since I’ve attended GenCon and know what they’re like. I was walking to and fro, my badge slung around my neck, and it seemed like everywhere I went, I’d hear from people about how I shouldn’t dress a certain way, or I shouldn’t walk a certain way. How I shouldn’t walk onto a panel and talk about a certain subject. How I should write stories a certain way, or that there were some stories I shouldn’t write at all.
Crap like that the whole time.
In the end I walked into a hall dressed a bit like the Silk Specter, though what I had on was more red and black than yellow and black. I seem to remember flipping someone off as I headed through the door, because they were about to question where I was going, and I didn’t feel like giving them the satisfaction of being able to feel good about “telling me something”.
That unquiet slumber is over. Now I have writing to do.
After I tell this idea to stop bugging me.