Surreality

I'm sticking with the one-word blog titles for now because, well, I can.

I just pulled myself from my warm, cozy bed, stumbled through the dark apartment to the office and woke up my computer (and the screen was blindingly bright in all that darkness, let me tell you) just so I could write about insomnia. Not mine, my narrator's.

Yeah, that's just weird no matter how you slice it.

I realized earlier in the day that my narrator's best friend hates her (the narrator's) sister. Or at least she really dislikes her. This came as a surprise to me. I figured it out based on two snarky lines of dialogue in two separate scenes that I'd written well apart from each other. (It's especially interesting because this character is not particularly snarky in general.)

I also spent a good chunk of time this evening looking for a scene I'm sure I've written. I can't find it anywhere -- it's not in the notebook of longhand notes, not in the stacks of printed bits of scenes I have strewn all over the floor and the desk, not in any of the documents in the folder labeled "pieces" on my computer, not in the old version of the book, not in the older version of the book. No where. But, I'm sure I wrote it. I can picture the text on the screen. ...Or did I? (I usually don't just toss a scene entirely. If I don't like it or it no longer works or whatever, I usually hold onto it in a folder or SOMETHING unless it's so badly written it embarrasses me. This does not seem to be the case with this scene I maybe didn't write after all.)

So, it's almost 1 a.m. and I have to get up around 7:15 to go to work. I am a girl who needs her sleep. (Like, I should get 10 hours every night. I don't, but I should.) And yet, here I am writing about writing, when writing about my character's insomnia gave me insomnia.

My life is really strange sometimes.