Sometimes I think writing is more a physical act than a mental one, that you have to keep your actual writing muscles (including your brain) supple to be able to do it with any measure of success or satisfaction. I think we're all perfectionists who dread making a mess on the paper but suspect we have to make messes to get anything remotely resembling a decent story on the page. My intention is to keep making messes until I make one I like. Again last night it was a struggle to force myself to write a bit, but I managed not to slough off. Very strange but interesting ideas, Jenny, keep at it.
July 18--Write about a recurring dream--Andy's eyes flew open. It was so dark in his room that the only things visible were the red LED lights of his alarm clock. He hated those numbers glowing ghoulishly, seeming to float in midair, but more than them, he hated not knowing what time it was whenever his eyes opened. He thought of the LED segments like red maggots frozen in space and glowing with decomposition. Not knowing was Andy's greatest fear. When he was a kid he started having dreams of being called on in class and not knowing the answer. He studied harder. His dreams evolved into not being able to answer any question from anyone. That's when he started to wake himself up several times a night. Now that he was an adult his dreams had changed again. Now he dreamt that he didn't know where he was and lately in his dreams he didn't know who he was. It took longer and longer to get to sleep and he woke more often to make sure he remembered who he was and to make sure the red LED maggots still glowed.
I like this guy; he's got possibilities.
--Barbara
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