Dreaming of flying

I take it as a fine sign when on writing retreat I dream of flying. I went outside in my dream wearing pajamas and two long scarves, in search of a character from a previous novel who had come to visit. I couldn’t find him but in the process of looking discovered that I could fly. Off I went, using the scarves as sails, or wings, and then one scarf got caught up in the wind and I let go. I could still fly, and practiced with the remaining scarf, learning to steer with my feet and the direction of my shoulders, learning that even intent was often enough to take me exactly where I wanted to go.

Although I no longer needed the scarves, I wanted the one I had let go of back and I swooped down and grabbed it, as agile and accurate as a diving bird.

Today I’m writing a new chapter that will be the final POV chapter for a flawed but beloved character. I think I have to fly to write it, and swoop down when needed to grasp that piece of purple wool that is perhaps the core of who he is.

The Perquimans River is a shimmering companion to this work. Last night I carried the umbrella to the dock and swept the fallen evergreen needles away and cleaned up a spilled greasy candle mess that defies my imagination as to what it actually is. Then we took drinks to the dock and told stories that should all be essays and watched the sun set.

Today birds are flying along the river calling and I’ve managed to have two coffees and overnight oats and take a shower and get dressed and visit with dear women writers. Now it’s time to sit down and take on this chapter.

And with that, the huge outdoor siren/fire alarm for this little town has gone off. What an entrance to this chapter with this character.