Writers' dreams are weird. Last night's was about vacationing in a mansion on a lake with friends while the lake crept in under the doorways and flooded the marble floors. I didn't panic, we only moved the party onto higher furniture and I made sure to take the wine. Priorities, people.
A few weeks before that, I dreamed of visiting a family of about eleventy-hundred people who had lived in the mountains of southern Virginia for generations. Their large home was haunted and each member I spoke to held a key to the mystery of the ghosts within. To get to the house, I had to walk upstream in a clear river pausing only when I saw a cat leave its rock shelter under the water to get out of the way of my footsteps.
I see a pattern forming.
Water - mansion/large home - lots of people.
Clearly a sign that it's time for a party at my place after tubing the Shenandoah.
After that, I think I'm ready to crack open the ghost vault and get writing again. I've been writing short humor since publishing the Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and Zombie Tarot, I love it but now I need a bit more fiction in my face.
I'm working on a fun MG proposal for my agent as well -- I can't give up bad jokes cold turkey.
Did you hear about the man who fell into the wood chipper and lost his left side?
Don't worry, he's all right now.
I did warn you.
