But wow. Usually, my dreams are very linear and really not that wild/wacky. But they're also not terribly figurative or imaginative or symbolic. This morning on the train, my dreaming mind came up with no fewer than three concrete story ideas/narratives/allegories that would make, at the very least, good writing exercises. Symbolic, somewhat, but not about me, which is what's interesting. Not like my brain trying to tell ME something, just trying to tell a story, period. Too bad I forgot what they are (you knew that was coming). Still, it's good to know that that's in there somewhere, fighting its way to the surface on occasion.
I should sketch out whatever pictures I can in what time I have. I remember something to do with a widow and her child, him holding the hem of her skirt, half tentative to toddle off on his own, half tentative to let her go. Symbolism. Also, something vaguely science-fictiony/futurish, revolving around a philosophical concept, perhaps. Lastly was, I think, a poem. Haven't written a decent one of those in ages.
Standing at the sink in the bathroom here at work, washing up after lunch and looking in the mirror, a thousand thoughts racing around my head, it came to me that I should be writing. Why not? Just whatever. I should finish roman_a_clef. And then finish it again. Kill your darlings. Learn to revise, and to let go. Tear it all down and build it up a dozen times. Be fine with mistakes, learning from failures is how we grow.
Be OK with that. Be OK with you.