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.
I hate that. I'll usually get a story idea at work in the morning and have no time to even outline it. By end of day, it's gone.
BTW, I had a dream about you last night. You had this giant 40 room house that was really cool. But you were older and had no tats. And you drove this El Camino you went on and on about. Then the band camp chick from American Pie entered the picture.
No pirates, no lashings, no buggery of the band camp chick.
Maybe it wasn't about you. Unless you live in a really cool 40 room house.
You had me at 'band camp girl'. Mmmm...