In The Writer's World

It’s a little frightening how quickly time passes. One minute it’s the middle of November; then Thanksgiving is over; a little later it’s almost Christmas.

I’ve been traveling at the speed of light–write, go to work, spend time with friends, shovel out the house, walk Sadie, cook, lose things on my desk (that part never changes!), eat, sleep, watch a movie…. Last Sunday afternoon I came down with a cold and by necessity things slowed a little. But it wasn’t too bad–more like allergies. I got out and about and was certain I was getting better. Then Thursday night, whatever I’ve got kicked me good. Missed work yesterday and today, sleeping. It’s given me  time to dream.

Dreams don’t have to make sense, but they are part of our subconscious. In one dream, for example, I am yelling at my father. I am angry at him for several things I long ago got over. This is the first time I yelled. When I awoke, I felt good. Got that one taken care of. In the spirit world it’s OK. I never would have yelled at him when he was alive. And the stuff I yelled about, though real and remembered, could be considered recreational when viewed on the cosmic scale. I really had very good parents.

In another dream I am flirting with two college age boys. I am fixin’ to do a Mrs. Robinson on them–perhaps together. Oh, God, where did that one come from!?! Get it out of here!

And there are the recurring Ian dreams. Those will never go away. Many are light-hearted and fun. In others we are serious and discuss the things we never had the chance to talk about when he was here.

Winter is going inward. It is going deep. It is the underworld. It is stories told around the fire when darkness surrounds us. It’s a great time of year to write.

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