Last night dreams swirled through my head and I found myself waking up a few times momentarily convinced that I was living the story in my book. Since the book I’m writing is based on my personal experience, I have already lived it, but it felt strange to be in the middle of it again–if only in my dreams.
I suppose my over active mental activity during sleep (I use that term loosely) could be attributed to the nearly 5,000 words I wrote yesterday. The lines between current reality and re-living the words I was writing began blurring the longer I typed. It became nearly impossible to pull myself away for the night; hence the dreams that plagued my sleep.
Sometimes I wonder how authors manage to pour so many words out and remain sane. It seems to me that books practically write themselves, taking on a life of their own and carrying the one writing away as in a flood. I imagine it could be that way with a novel; my one beginning, still-in-progress attempt at fiction has affected me as such. But surprisingly enough, my own story has evoked the same effect. The other day I found myself thinking “what a great story this would be if it were real…oh, wait, it IS real!” Silly me. Hope it has the same impact on other readers!
This adventure of writing thrills me. Each day I wake up excited to start again. Even stuck places with their frustrations of where-do-I-go-next feel more like a challenging puzzle than something to dread. I may not always feel this way. Some authors crank out numerous books a year, and quite honestly, I don’t see how they do it. Maybe some day I’ll be that good. In the meantime, I hope to sleep tonight, but wish I could write in my sleep.
So many words. So little sleep.