I have determined that I am the world’s greatest writer. At least when I go to bed. Because that’s when I think of all of these brilliant stories and ideas. The second my head hits the pillow, I’m creating a multitude of breathtaking characters and worlds in my head. We’re talking Pulitzer level stuff, man. You don’t even know.
Buuuut then I fall asleep and the next day when I sit down at my laptop…
The sad part is that I actually do keep a notebook and pen by my bed for these supposed flashes of brilliance. However, more often than not I determine that the amount of effort I’ve put into tossing and turning and pillow manipulation to find that oh-so-comfy position of bodily contortedness isn’t worth sacrificing to jot down some notes.
And when I DO bust out of my blanket burrito to write something down? I wake up to this sort of wtf:
Steacles poond of neat?
Stcales pooncl of healt?
Stealy pound of heat?
(After looking at it for a while, I figured out it’s actually “steady pound of heart” although hell if I know if I meant to reference the steady pounding of someone’s heart or, more disturbing but not out of the realm of possibility in a vampire story, a literal pound of heart. Like some vampire was at the vampire butcher shop ordering up heart meat. I was half-asleep when I wrote it and I… I just don’t know.)
This whole can’t-brain-when-I-should dilemma also applies to any situation—working, driving, peeing, whatever—during which I’m suddenly bombarded with plots and breakthroughs and titles and character names and all sorts of other stuff that eludes me while I’m actually sitting at my desk. It’s frustrating, but in a funny kind of way.
That’s it for now. I have some news about The Rising Son that I’ll be sharing sometime next week, along with an excerpt perhaps. Until next time!