Still at the garden house, still writing, still frustrated with Noah. I pulled out all the chapters from his point-of-view and read them in order, trying to decide whether his characterization works to lead him to the actions that he simply will not take in the chapter I’m trying to write. They don’t, not quite, and I found lots of things to change, so I’m working on some revisions. But it feels like progress, so that’s good, even if it’s still not finalizing a first draft.
I had an enormously complicated dream last night, the kind with lots of characters, lots of confusing activity, and all the feels. Mostly it felt stressful and worrying, not quite a nightmare, but closing in on one. Toward the end of the dream, I had to choose the right pair of shoes from a pile of them, all impractical. I knew I had to find a pair that fit right, that would be comfortable for lots of walking as we escaped from whatever disaster we were escaping from, but I had to hurry. So I grabbed a pair, hoping for the best, and headed toward the place where I was meeting the people I would try to escape with. On the way, I passed through a ballroom, crowded with boxes and bags and piles of luggage. There was a guy there, dressed like a workman. He had a Jamaican accent and gold teeth and he said to me, with a bright smile, “Those shoes are made for dancing.” I said, “Is that an invitation?” He said, “Of course,” and held out his arms, so I stepped into them and danced with him. For the first moment, I was stiff and tense, and then I relaxed and let him whirl me around the room, closing my eyes and trusting that he wouldn’t let me stumble or trip. He didn’t. It felt like floating.
When I woke up, I was smiling. I am pretty sure the message from my subconscious is to stop worrying about getting the right shoes (i.e., making exactly the right choices) and to relax and dance. Good job, subconscious. It has definitely made for a lovelier Monday morning.