The Journal of Michael Merriam

I hardly ever remember my dreams. There are perfectly good reasons for this, which I don't need to go into here. What is important is that I almost never remember my dreams, so when I do, they tend to be weird.

So…

In this dream, I'm on a city bus and the dream is all about Abra Staffin Weibe's (cloudscudding) project, Circus of Brass and Bone. It turns out that Circle of Brass and Bone has become so popular that she has started asking her writer friends to take over bits and pieces of it, under her supervision. So Abra is sitting near the front of the bus, with Jaye Lawrence (wordswoman) as her primary assistant. They are working on the story with laptops, though there are hard copies all over the place (where these are being printing, I have no idea). There are other writers, mostly members of MNSpec, in the background, doing work on the story. Those pages would then get sent around the bus to Eli Effinger-Weintraub (half_double), who was wearing a jaunty top hat and copyediting the manuscripts before they went to the front of the bus for Abra's approval.

As the bus rolled along, it would stop, just like a regular bus stops at different streets, except instead of streets, the driver would call out cities. The people getting on and off the bus seemed to be characters from the story (though I did not recognize any of them), characters that the writers needed at that point. My wife, careswen, is directing characters. At each stop careswen would stand in the door and pick characters to get on and off the bus.

Driver: "Hartford!"
careswen: (pointing out the door) "You, you, you, and you! Get on the bus. The rest of you, I'm sorry, but we don't need you right now. Yes, I know there's an apocalypse going on out there, but we only need these four. Sorry."

Driver: "New York City!"
careswen: (pointing around the bus at characters) "Okay. You two, your stories are wrapped; this is where you get off. Thanks for your efforts!"

Meanwhile, I'm sitting toward the back of the bus, and instead of using a laptop, I am using an old manual typewriter. I'm getting the approved pages from Abra and converting the story into a screenplay, though I'm inexperienced and worried about botching it. Fortunately, I'm being advised by John Heimbuch (mistoffo) and Roy C. Booth, though sometimes John wonders off to the back of the bus to play music with his band, Bad September.

I would type a page of screenplay and pass it back to John and Roy for comments, editing, and possible changes. From time to time, John would laugh manically. When that happened, Abra would stand up and point at John and say, "That! That is what I want to hear!" and then sit back down and consult with Jaye, who always seemed to have her hands full of manuscript pages.

So there you go. Yeah. I'm not sure what to make of it.

I dozed earlier and had a weird-ass dream about clown cars, animal crackers come to life, and the ghost of Alfred Bester. I don't really remember much past that, which I suspect is a mercy.

Despite becoming ill and still being that way, the weekend was full of fun.

( Details Behind the Cut )

Another 300 words last night, this time on Into This Land.

My readers are turning in their thoughts on the Phantom Streetcars Novel. I have crits and suggestions from redheadedali (you were the first back with your crit!). greykev is visiting from Iowa this weekend and has his thoughts and edits on the novel with him. I'm meeting wordswoman today to discuss the book. careswen has been handing me back chapters all marked with the RED PEN OF DOOM. I suspect hatfield13 will have something to say about it this Friday.

The plan is to begin rewriting after Wiscon is over, give it a last pass by careswen with her copy editing hat on, and then out the door this summer in search of an agent or publisher.

Will someone please buy my dark urban fantasy revenge and redemption paranormal romance supernatural horror novel with mythological and fairy tale overtones and lesbian protagonists? Pretty please?

I jabbed a sliver of wood off my closet door under my fingernail last night as I was groping around in the dark looking for pajama pants. I'll let you fill in the colorful language that exited from my mouth.

There were a couple of...strange dreams last night. Nothing I plan to report - and in fact they're starting to fade - but they were...strange.

I also picked up the Bass guitar yesterday for the first time since Christmas. I didn't sound particularly good, but it wasn't bad enough to drive Reverend Selena under the bed.

It's damp and dreary outside. I like it.

Now that the novel is finished, I find myself basically hanging around limply. I should submit some short stories, but I can't seem to work up the energy to do. I need to get ready for game night tomorrow, but, yeah, whatever. Right now my brain wants nothing to do with being a writer. I have managed to catch up the laundry.

So I spent today reading mrissa's book. It is a damn fine piece of storytelling, just fyi.

The Reverend Selena keeps placing her rattle mouse in the middle of the doorway leading from the hall to the living room. She does this only at night, after careswen and I have gone to bed. So of course, since I sleep erratically, I get up every night and step on it. A part of me thinks she does it to warn herself that I'm up and about, but that would mean she is purposely using the rattle mouse as a tool. There are implications in that idea.

I had an odd dream last night. No really, for me this is momentous, because I hardly ever remember dreams. I dreamed I was having a party, and everyone who has ever been a positive influence on me was there. Loved ones, friends, people I've worked with, faces I barely remembered in my waking mind. We were all in this abandoned hotel (which had made appearances in my dreams before). We had this great party, and then everyone left. As they all walked out into the street, I waved good-bye at them until they were all safely in their cars, then I closed this garage door and locked it. I turned around and found myself facing a big old empty hotel. The only people left were two I did not recognize; a surly goth girl and a stoned out guy with greasy hair. I remember thinking to myself, "Now why are those two still here?" Then I woke up.

Weird.

I'm going to go pick out something for dinner.

In Peace
Michael