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.

Sigh.

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.