Sarah Avery (dr_pretentious) wrote,
Sarah Avery
dr_pretentious

The Kind Of Day You Dream About

Today was a beautiful writing day. I had one of those plot holes... You remember the Far Side cartoon with the physicist? He's staring in dismay at his blackboard full of scribbled equations, and in the middle, he has had to resort to filling his gap with, "And then a miracle occurs." Or the South Park episode in which the Underpants Gnomes reveal to Cartman their secret business plan:

Step One: Steal Underpants
Step Two: ???
Step Three: Profit

Yeah, well, the plot of the current Rugosa Coven story was building up to a scene of epic struggle with an actual adversary, and I knew none of the things about that adversary that I needed to know to make the story actually work.

That is, I didn't know until about 1:30 this afternoon. At which point the entire story came together and I comprehended the true nature of the cosmos. There were parting clouds, beams of sunlight, and angelic trumpets also. Revelatory. Fucking revelatory.

Now all I have to do is write it in a way that does not suck.

In other news, the conference is now drawing near enough that I'm starting to have anxiety dreams about it. I dream that I miss my flight to Seattle. I dream that I've triple-booked myself by telling seedmoon, and Ary & Anj, and my mother's cousin that I'm crashing on all of their respective couches on the same Wednesday night that week, and then they all feel so snubbed about my schedule confusion that I suddenly have nowhere to stay. I wake up and am relieved that, although in fact I have not arranged anywhere to stay that night, at least nobody's irked at me. I dream that I show up for a pitch session with an editor, and I'm wearing my frumpiest Christmas Eve flannel nightgown. Normal people have nudity anxiety dreams; nice Pagan girl that I am, I'm never anxious when I dream about being naked, but I get seriously freaked out if I dream that people see me in my frumpy winter sleepwear. I dream that an agent asks me to describe my novel, and I can't remember anything about anything I've ever written. I dream that KJ asks me to handle conference sign-in for one of my volunteer shifts, and I show up a day late. I dream that I get the weeks mixed up for midsummer festival and the writing conference, and pack my luggage all wrong: I show up at the campground with a suitcase full of business cards and impeccable linen suits, and then, somehow, at the conference hotel with a bunch of sarongs, my ritual tools, and a tent.

Why can't June come, already? Ah. Because I haven't finished the Rugosa draft. Better get back to work, then.
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