Took the laptop to bed, last night, hoping for the forward movement that the morning had hinted might come.

Nothing.

Spent the entire night stewing in my own juices, trying to find my way to a character who just didn’t want to cooperate; writing my feelings/thoughts in the plot-moment from the character’s point of view. But no.

Brain said it. Dreams confirmed it.

Woke twice from troubled dreams, needing to settle myself down; to remind myself that the chaos, the turmoil, was dream only.

But that’s the thing: It never is.

Can’t remember the first dream. But the second… I was in an airport with a small group; late-arrivers of a larger group bound for France. We were being shepherded through security inspections of our luggage so we wouldn’t miss the plane. My father (who has not been in  this world for 15 years) didn’t have a passport; didn’t know he needed one. I was delayed on the inspection line. The group moved on without me.

And as for me—a [person who is a meticulous and prepared traveler, always]—I was screwed: I didn’t know the airline, the flight, the time of departure. I was lost and alone, waiting for someone to find me.

In all, a pretty accurate reflection of the current challenges of the page. A larger world that leaves the writer behind. A waiting for that nebulous world to find me. The not knowing where to go. Misery, consuming and rampant.

In the light of morning, I’m starting to see what the challenges are. I don’t know what the character wants because she doesn’t. Old notions circling the drain. Emotionally irrevocable steps to an uncertain conclusion. The abandonment of the safe place for the stickily uncertain one.

Dreams tell truths. Even icky ones. They help us deal with chaos that, without the willingness to face it, simply will not go away. Even if they feel, inside, like a can of snakes with an attitude.

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