Friday, May 6, 2016


I like to think that nightmares are fuel for the writer in me. I write interesting stuff when I translate nightmares into stories. The dreamtime is a playground of visual rhythms and melodies.

I like dreams because they are akin to the night and night intrigues me.

Here is a thought for you...

I once wove a story about nightstallions...and nightmares...all part of the dream herd.

It posed a question in my mind. Those writers who can write the dark, frightening stuff, is their contorted views of reality, nothing but a nightstallion? A dream so powerful and muscular it can surface in the light of day and take your waking mind for a thunderous ride?

Yeah, yeah, old cheese from October 20, 2005.

I am having much difficulty writing lately. I sit for literally hours just staring at the computer trying to summon up the conclusion to "Skinned"...any story at this point.  I am left wondering if that part of me has gone? I used to cartoon, that has faded, I used to write novels, that has faded, I used to write/illustrate childrens books, that has faded, I used to draw, that too has faded.

Has my inner writer suddenly died of old age?

Bleah....hate to think I am creatively spent all ready.

I am almost a week off the Busbar. Not taking it has lifted that bland whiteness/feeling of being over medicated in my head.

It's most frustrating.

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