Early Morning Routine

"I didn't realize it went that far," your boyfriend tells you in your dream after you relay a particularly humorous story to a captivated audience.

You reply, "I'm a creative nonfiction writer. I'm allowed to take liberties."

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First, the particularly humorous, slightly exaggerated story in my dream never happened (a threesome? really?). Second, I haven't decided yet which direction I will focus on come next January -- fiction or nonfiction. And, third, it's a bad day when I start dreaming every night about a particular subject in that detail. My brain can get a little obsessive (like the time I spent 14 months as a totally bored receptionist with nothing to do but Minesweeper games all day and then my brain would go nuts, and I would complete entire expert-level games, step by step, down to the last two squares--which one has the mine? d'oh! that one, crap--in my head as I fell asleep). I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. But I hadn't realized how much I'm eating, sleeping, breathing, dreaming writing right now.

I made a commitment to get up 45 minutes earlier each morning to allow time and space and quiet and solitude to write (I hope my eight-year-old son continues the sleeping-in trend). To become better, one needs practice, right? Right.

This is the second day; yesterday I did manage to get a couple pages in on a piece I'm writing about domestic violence. But I can't seem to get it to be about more than the situation. I can't find the story in it. What did the protagonist learn from this experience? What is the character arc, the change?

Unfortunately, my deadline is Thursday to be distributed for workshop. Which means I may submit the crappy-but-complete humor piece titled "Things I learned from my relationships." I'm not sure my class is ready for a piece about boobs, penis size and vacillating sexual orientation. They seem a little, um, staid. Conservative. Suppose it could be fun to shock them.

Coffee tastes extra satisfying when it's imbibed pre-sunrise. The house is dark, and quiet, with nothing but the swoosh of the heater and the crackle of one cat eating breakfast and the other cat's purr. I'm ensconced in my Poang chair with my feet up and my (brand-new!) Toshiba mini on my lap. I think I can get used to this.