I woke my husband up last night. I was talking in my sleep. I haven’t done that for a very long time, and it typically happens when I’m under a lot of stress.
I switched jobs recently. I’m still teaching for ICL, and still teaching at the college, but I became a full-time instructor (officially – I’ve been working full-time for years), and the lead instructor for the General Education section. Oh, and we are undergoing an accreditation review. I’ve been reviewing faculty files and hunting down documents that are missing from them.
I fell a little behind on my ICL work as result of working a lot of extra hours at the college, so I spent the past weekend catching up. But I also wrote. I worked on a novel that I outlined when I was down with food poisoning a few weeks ago. I found that magical flow that writers love; that wave of words that carries us along for hours of time of which we are unaware.
It felt so good to devote so much time to that. Then Monday arrived, and I had to go back to the “real world” of my job. I must have been harboring some deep-seeded frustration, because this morning my husband said I was thrashing all night long.
“You kept telling me to get out of the way, there wasn’t enough room,” he said as I brushed my teeth.
“Room for what?” I had no recollection of the dream at all.
“All the words that were flooding your head,” he said, and he laughed.
It makes sense, really. I don’t get as much writing time as I used to, so subconsciously, I must be feeling like all those words are backing up in my brain, flooding my head, looking for a way out and onto a page or a file on my computer. I must have been aware of this at some level. Last week I bought myself a new laptop – one of those tiny ones that weighs less than a Danielle Steele novel in hardback and is smaller, too. I downloaded some software, and now I take my writing with me everywhere.
I think today, I’ll take it to work.