Good lord, I’m tired.
Leaving work at 3 today helped, but I’ve just got a backlog of exhaustion stored up. I’ve been working weekends, 12-hour days, all while chasing after, in a writerly fashion, the almighty buck. It’s glorious to be paid to write. It’s also bloody awful.
Last night I collapsed on my bed after driving 3 hours through the pouring rain, returning from a conference in Sacramento. Fully dressed, I passed out and missed my sister-in-law’s cd release party. I had the most wonderful dream…
And as much as I want to write it out, I know there is nothing more painful in the world than being forced to listen to someone else’s dreams. Suffice it to say that my family bought a pirate ship. A haunted one. There were rituals involving candles and ears from the long-deceased, and a detour (looking for a restroom – I had to pee) up a side road in San Francisco that sent the ship plunging into a row of painted ladies. We were trying to parallel park alongside Dolores Park.
Actually, I have no anyway. I just wanted to trick someone into listening to my dream. It was soooo awesome. Now, after an hour-long bath and a full night’s sleep, I’m feeling the need to do some of my own writing, the type that does not bring in the bucks at all. So adios; trolls and bridges await my ham-handed touch.