Perhaps it's time to cut back on the writing, or perhaps I need to write more, I don't know. Last night I tried to sleep and my brain was buzzing with books I've read and stories I'm writing and I couldn't sleep. When I finally drifted off, my dreams were vivid and fantastical, with invisible monsters stealing souls which were returned by guardians. I'd almost like to write about it, but fear I cannot do the monster justice.
To say the least, I survived today only through the blessing of chocolate and painkillers. Between doing real work, I wrote about wolves and romance and the strange country they meet in. It kept me awake, though I doubt it'll do much to help me sleep tonight. Need to be competent tomorrow, have a meeting about web content. Motivation is minimal.
Sometimes, when running bare foot and fleeting and alone, you feel graceful.
If you don't put him down on paper, its likely he'll run amok in your head, like the other characters it sounds like you have bouncing around up there. From there its a thin line between creative type and unshowered Howard Hughes, right?
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