“There is an old saying that those who eat toasted cheese at night will dream of Lucifer. The author of Wuthering Heights has evidently eaten toasted cheese.” — from a review of Wuthering Heights in 1848
So lately I’ve been dreaming even more than usual (which is also code for sleeping even less than usual), but I haven’t had time to really look at what I’ve been writing. And now that I am going back through it… a lot of it is so distant and fuzzy I barely remember writing it.
Like, okay, I had this weird, sort of fairytale thriller dream. And I remember thinking, Well that was odd. But I don’t remember the dream. And I didn’t remember writing this…
…. And when H eventually turns up dead in C’s bedroom and C is missing, everyone thinks he did it and fled. No one thinks C ran with the murderer.
Because what else can you do when someone loves you like that? You have to take them away from everyone else you care about. And the only real way to do that is to love them back.
Which… I don’t even know. Rick says it reads like a blurb (possibly because it starts with ‘and when’). Which makes sense. Except in that case it’s a blurb for something that doesn’t exist. There’s all of three more sentences of it and they make even less sense.
I was particularly enamoured of the grammatical atrocity I created in the middle of it, though. It made me feel like the words were going down in a spiral, gathering speed until they slammed me into a closed door. Because I am both thoughtful and kind I shifted the punctuation to prevent the inevitable pained noises that result from people bumping their noses on such doors, but personally I’m still enjoying getting lost in the loop. It’s vaguely nauseating, which sort of works for this conceptually.
I really wish I had time to figure out what it was about.
Hell, two nights ago I wrote a fully formed turning-point climax scene for a book that doesn’t exist. I wish I had time to write that. Maybe if I just stop sleeping altogether…