writers are weird

So I had a dream this morning that I was more or less single-handedly responsible for the last of the Antarctic ice cap melting. We (Ted, my parents, a lot of other people I knew) were in an apparently incredibly well reinforced building with lots of very large windows on Antarctica, and right after the cap finished melting (it was awfully small, in my dream. Like, 12×12), tidal waves started up. The first one brought a bunch of Polynesian people down with it, so we ushered them all into the house where the next waves wouldn’t get them, and then we kept having to run out and get more people as they got washed down to Antarctica. After a while the waves stopped and we thought all was well, but then one three times as large as the rest of them came and CRAAASSSSSSSHED over the building, and shook the windows. It was all pretty dramatic.

Then I woke up thinking about this conversation I had with Jai about writing while we were driving down to Kenai, wherein she asked me how writing worked, kind of. And, y’know, there’s this whole “voices in my head” explanation, which really isn’t accurate, but it’s the only way I can explain it. “They’re not *voices*,” I said to her earnestly. “They’re *people*.”

And do they go away after you’re done with them? Jai wanted to know? And I said, well, kind of. If I start readng, say, URBAN SHAMAN again, Jo kind of wakes up and wants me to tell some more of her stories.

“Ah,” Jai says, “so you’re schizophrenic.”

Well, um, er. Not … exactly. I don’t know. All I know is writers are weird. And I thought I’d share that with you this morning. :)