Once I start actually writing-- my self-hatred flares. My awkward real life writer voice never lives up to the expectations of the brilliant writer voice in my head. My real life writer voice can't take dictation quickly enough from my head-writer. It stammers. It splutters. It suffers.
In my sleep, I write everything: poems, stories, plays, novels, articles, songs. In my dreams, words flow. I stop, ponder, erase, rearrange. I cock my head, I nod my head. My dream-writing isn't simple; it isn't linear. It's a complicated, dizzying, altogether lovely dance.
And since we're visiting my head, please direct your attention to the library. All its many, many volumes are, of course, by me. Some are dusty, some are shiny -- and all are brilliant works in progress.
As long as they stay in my head.
