Rage, Beauty, Sorrow
I continue to suffer my bookaholism. I bolted out of my office at five yesterday, knowing Brian wouldn't pick me up until 5:30, because I wanted more time to sit and read my book while waiting for him.
My excuse is that, uh, as a writer, I need to consume fiction to understand the current state of the craft. Yeah.
And hey, maybe it works, because after sniffling through the last chapter of "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison, I dreamed all night about my Aztec story and I think I finally have a proper first scene.
But just before dawn, I dreamed I was in a ruined Welsh castle, struggling to find a battle and get my armor together. There was a tall, square tower, open to the sky on top, but with a slight platform, where a rope hung but no bell. I set my armor bag down and pulled out my breastplate only to find myself wearing a long blue gown.
A man took the breastplate from me and told me I was to be the Lady in the Tower this time, for them to rescue. I sank in damselish despair and awoke crying for missed opportunities.
My excuse is that, uh, as a writer, I need to consume fiction to understand the current state of the craft. Yeah.
And hey, maybe it works, because after sniffling through the last chapter of "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison, I dreamed all night about my Aztec story and I think I finally have a proper first scene.
But just before dawn, I dreamed I was in a ruined Welsh castle, struggling to find a battle and get my armor together. There was a tall, square tower, open to the sky on top, but with a slight platform, where a rope hung but no bell. I set my armor bag down and pulled out my breastplate only to find myself wearing a long blue gown.
A man took the breastplate from me and told me I was to be the Lady in the Tower this time, for them to rescue. I sank in damselish despair and awoke crying for missed opportunities.