A funny thing happens…

when I don’t write often enough. I start having vivid dreams. Several a night, and they keep me from sound sleep. It’s as if my mind must create and if I fail to produce enough fiction, it will do it for me. It’s so weird.

It shows how ingrained the creative process is in me. When I was younger, I was very immersed in classical music studies but left conservatory after my freshman year in college because it too limited my world. (I was, I suppose, the ideal liberal arts student — interested in everything.) But for years afterwards, I would sometimes dream compositions — full symphonies or symphonic poems — and I would always awake startled and disbelieving.

I’ve come to accept this element of my subconscious mind, but it still continues to fascinate me. I am in awe of it.

But, you might well be asking, what’s with me that I’m not writing more? Well, three things: I’m focused on promoting Inequities, which takes time away from writing. I’m taking time from drafting new work to recharge the batteries. And, probably the only frustrating reason, both family and friends have been interfering with my time during the last two weeks. (Their demands are necessary and not all at out of bounds, just bunched up more than usual.)

I can stave off the exaggerated dreams — by editing. So I’ll return to editing my next novel, an erotic fantasy likely to see print as a two parter. It’ll help. But sooner or later, I’ll have to take up my third novel and continue its tale. And for no other reason than to quell my mind and spirit.

Weirdness. It’s why I love being a writer!