Damn, I wish I’d had some un-interrupted time to write this morning.
I had a dream, some woman dredged from my subconscious. A person as complete and real and defined as any dream I’ve had in years. The last time I had a dream like this, about a person this real, that dream grew into Wanton, my novella.
I woke up with my head full of this girl – young, tattooed all over her back and shoulders with vivid images, plants and birds and colorful insects, curly haired, wearing hippie/gypsy sort of jewelry. She was wearing tiny round glasses.
I wanted to write out the dream, because I could feel a story forming in my head around this woman. I had the setting, the edges of a plot. And the scent of her, the feel of her skin.
It’s sliding away now, hours later, and I fear before I have time to write it, it’ll be gone.