Monday, March 16, 2009


Sometimes, I think writers never stop working.

I'm deep into the first draft of the second Dulcie Schwartz book, and I've started dreaming about it. Nothing useful, like "oh, she should be stalked by the killer" or "why not make the tortilla into a clue?" No, dreams that I'm about to go onstage and I haven't finished reading the script. Or that I'm posing naked (but it's ok, in the dream, I have a body like Karita Matilla's, which is all one could want for a woman of our age). It's disconcerting. I wake up and am confused to realize that I'm not writing, that I have, in fact, been asleep. But I like to think that all that subconscious stuff will play out in the text as I chip out word after word from my grudging mind.

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