I dream vividly. Not the usual “going to school naked” stuff, though I have had a couple of those dreams. No, mine are different. I dream stories.
Richly detailed stories with backgrounds and flavor. I know each character intimately, their childhoods, their likes and dislikes. I know the story from start to end and I get to be a part of it all. (Sidenote on the awesome jazz currently playing here @ Starbucks)
Then I wake up and this whole story is running through my mind, begging to be told. Sometimes I hang on to sleep, reluctant to wake, and the dream turns to print, taunting me with what could be if only I would wake and write. Then I get up, get some caffeine in my system only to discover that all I have left of the rich world I dreamed are bits and pieces.
Now I have to work and recreate the story before it is all gone. Now I have yet another story begun and dozens of other stories sitting around half done. Now I have another chunk of writing that I can’t help but despair over before I’ve barely begun because I know myself. I am always writing; always starting but never finishing.
So I ask: What good is writing well if you can’t write to completion? Thoughts?