Saturday, July 12, 2008

The very definition of frustration

I had a dream last night.

In my dream, I came up with a pretty good little short story, or fragment thereof.

As I've said many times, I'm a very momentum-based writer.

The problem was, in my dream, I couldn't write the story down. No matter what I tried - pen and paper, getting a hold of a computer - I kept getting interrupted.

So there I was, roaming the streets, reciting this fragment rhythmically to myself. The whole thing was done, and I was reciting it over and over again.

Only, I never got the chance to set it down.

I was confounded by friends who couldn't lend me their computers, by reporters with questions for their copy editor, you name it.

Meanwhile, I could tell I was drifting closer and closer to waking up, and getting more and more desperate.

Of course, eventually, I woke up. And now I can't remember more than bits and pieces, the rhythmic sing-song of the piece. But not the actual words, nor in the right order.

As I drifted awake, Marisa said something - probably the time or something - and I distinctly remember muttering under my breath as I came awake, "Great, now she's talking to me."

It's sheer agony. I tried so hard - in my subconscious - to remember this piece, which I swear was genuinely full of potential, and of course I can't put it together now that I actually can sit in front of my computer, in relative peace, and write it down.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs, "Everybody just shut up and leave me alone!"

But, since I can't remember what I so badly wanted to write when everybody shut up and left me alone, I'm writing this instead.

And thinking of the eight hours I get to spend on the road today, alone in the peace and quiet, with this stupid little jaunty tune in my head, trying to remember the damn words.


Editor's note: I do have a few more blogs for you - haven't forgotten them in the recesses of my mind. Just been busy. Watch for them sooner or later. Probably later.