I had another really weird dream last night. This time, we were in a zombie apocalypse. It was a small band of survivors, none of whom I knew, except for a kung fu brother of mine. I like the guy. He's a nice person, really hilarious, and down to earth. In this dream, though, he was the villain.
Anyway, we're a group of six moving through a ruined landscape that looked like my mind had pulled it right from The Last of Us. We find a young woman, roughly my age, near a destroyed shed in the backyard of a collapsing house. She's curled over herself and crying. With a little TLC, she joins our less-than-merry band of survivors.
Then, while we're looting a house in search of supplies, my kung fu brother snaps, and goes into a weird entitled misogynist rage against our newest member (he fancied her, you see, and she wasn't interested). I intervened, and for it, I got shot twice. Once in the lung and once in the stomach. I died.
Then my alarm went off.
And that was my dream.
So, there we go. That's what happened in my head early this morning.
Writing is going relatively well. I didn't write as much as I wanted to yesterday, but I still wrote, and that's a good step. I will have to change the last fifty or so words, since I took it to a place that makes to story stick, but that's nothing, really.
The trick to writing a book is just to keep plugging away at it. Sometimes it feels like you're shifting a pile of sand with a pair of tweezers, but each word down is one more step closer to completion.
Off I go, marching towards the finish line.