it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken
matociquala

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the peace that reigned in Upper Dreamland was badly negated when the giant slugs invaded

The package I thought was the MfU DVDs, alas, turned out to be copies of Dust. Which is also good news, in that it means that Dust is a real book and will probably start filtering into big box stores on Tuesday (and that my holiday shopping is done, if I want to be incredibly cheap about it ;-) ), but you know, it's not my The Man from U.N.C.L.E. DVDs!

Still in transit, alas! Which is better than backordered, which is where some of the people on the mailing lists still seem to be stuck.... I guess we kind of swamped Time-Life with pre-orders....



Alas. I am down to one Sarracenia. Two of them, and the night-blooming jasmine, did not survive the repeated stresses of being abandoned for Viable Paradise and then World Fantasy. I guess, when the next delivery or publication check comes in, it's time to go back to Logee's. Oh, the hardship.



My monthly column is up at Storytellers Unplugged. This one, thanks to tanaise for the suggestion, is on writing groups.



So I'm one of those people who almost never remembers her dreams. When I do remember them, it's usually because they are nightmares bad enough to wake me up, which happens, on average, once or twice a year. (There are some doozies that I still remember from first grade, and one from college I suspect I will never forget.) I think I remembered them better when I was younger, and I think I also slept longer (though as a child I never went down for naps, and even in grammar school I slept as little as possible. When I was in high school, I would stay up to watch Letterman most nights (Letterman was still seriously funny then, and on late--12:30 to 1:30 in the morning, after the Tonight Johnny Carson Show) and then be up at 5:30 for school in a different town from the one I lived in.

In college, I worked on the campus paper, and there were nights when we'd put the paper to bed at 4:30 am and I'd be up for breakfast before an 8 am class. (When I got mono, the inability for years afterwards to get by on three hours of sleer drove me insane.)

When I was dating my ex-husband, I lived in Manchester, Connecticut and he lived in North Las Vegas, Nevada. So I would go to bed around nine, for a couple three hours, and then start getting up around midnight every hour or so to see if he was on IM yet and we could chat. I was riding the bus an hour to work at that point, and I worked for a roofing company, so I had to leave the house around 5:45 AM.

Good times, good times. That was where I actually pushed my limits to the point where I would nap on weekends.

In Vegas, I got up at 4 am for a job with a 5 am start time. So for me, these days, seven is a luxurious sleep-in. (It's not that I'm a morning person so much as that the only time of day I don't really like is afternoons, when the sun is high and it's bright and hot. I would just as soon sleep through those, but if I did I would have no social life; it's easier to stay on schedule with everybody else in the world.)

These days, I sleep a lot! I generally go to bed sometime between 11:30 and 2 am, read until I get sleepy (unless it's going to be one of those nights when I am up until 5 am waiting for the melatonin to kick in), and then get up sometime between six and eight. I have a regularly scheduled gym date with ashacat at 8 am on weekdays, which I am blowing off right now because I am getting a (*^(&^( cold [atchoo!], so my alarm goes off at 6:30 so I can have my wits gathered and be out of bed by seven. (I do not wake up alert and oriented, either. I wake up confused and disheveled. Another way in which I am not a morning person.) That's six hours a night, sometimes seven!

In other words, I'm a short sleeper, and I resent sleeping; I've never understood how anybody can want to spend more hours in bed than they absolutely have to, because for me, sleep is about six hours of either tossing and turning, or being dead to the universe.  (I am the bane of the people I share hotel rooms with at conventions, who are to a woman recreational sleepers who prefer an 11 am start time, if not later. And I am too stupid to sneak very well in the mornings. They only put up with me because I pay cash.)

Also, I tend to roll my eyes at dream sequences in books (Hate 'em, Jock--this is an ongoing bone of contention between truepenny and me, actually, as she adores dream sequences [but Bear, you say, what about the dream sequences in Hammered and Carnival and Ink & Steel? Well, yeah, just because I think a technique is cheap doesn't mean I won't use it. Though in my defense, the one in Carnival was my editor's idea. I wrote her a public letter of apology over it after I realized it really did improve the book.] and I'm always like "This dream sequence, it's not doing anything, take it out!." She usually gets the last laugh, though.)

I skip over the dream reports on my friends-list, generally, also.

So it seems very odd to me that I have had, in the past few months, two dreams that I remember clearly and in detail.

The first one was a few weeks ago, and it involved an estranged friend being killed in a car accident, and me being awakened by a phone call informing me of same. (This is very much how the one I remember from college started too--I have a fairly serious personal horror of car accidents.) What was very interesting was that this particular dream was tightly plotted, and involved some detective work, which lead to a series of revelations, some of which I won't disclose because I am saving them for fiction. Suffice it to say, the victim of the car accident appeared to have crashed intentionally, and had left behind a  revelatory letter.

The second dream was the one that I woke up to this morning, which had real people in it! (My dreams rarely have real people in them). My mother and thecoughlin and I were in a liquor store in an unknown city, buying booze (I remember plum wine, which had a beautiful squat irregular bottle like a giant partially melted ice-cube, with a single preserved plum floating in the amber liquor (and now I WANT PLUM WINE; I wonder where I can get some around here...); lemon vodka (something I do not normally buy); orange vodka (likewise), and at least three other bottles. One, I think, was bourbon. Possibly Woodford Reserve. I think the other two were liqueurs which only exist in Dreamland.

After that, we went to pick up leahbobet at the bus stop, and somehow leahbobet and I got separated from the party, and we were wandering through the industrial runoff channels of this death-star-sized gray concrete building and could not find our way out. We did find some troops drilling in a courtyard, however--I think they were Russian army, and it was a very Kremlinesque display, complete with full dress uniforms and Ministry Of Funny Walks. After that, we found our way to the University of Connecticut campus, and I recognized the building we were in (Monteith, for those of you familiar with UConn) and managed to get us oriented and head out to where we were supposed to meet thecoughlin and my mom, which, from the direction we were heading, was probably somewhere in Hilltop.

How we got from Red Square to Storrs, I have no idea. Especially since I think we must have been in Boston to start off, since it was both a big city and a New England style package store.

Also, what leahbobet and my mom were doing at a drinking party at my former university, I have not the foggiest.

This, by the way, has been an object lesson in why stories that take their narrative from dreams usually fail as stories. *g* No plot arc or character development. ;-)
Tags: bavarian babushkas, jacob's ladder, narcissism, nonfiction, quotidiana, vicious flying llamas
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