There I was on December 12th, not doing a thing for Caroline’s birthday, when a text from Deborah arrived, asking if we’d be interested in a gratis stay at their fabulous Simpson Hotel in Duncan over Christmas while they’d be away traveling. While the tiny hotel wouldn’t have other guests during our stay, there were a bunch of cats that we were being invited to keep company. Who could resist?
But there was an issue, not an issue regarding Maliki the Cat performing a flying leap into a diorama, but by that date I’d been on the verge of finishing part one of the novel with which I’m threatening the world. That was not really an issue either: the problem truly raised its head when I actually finished said part of my book on the following Thursday, one day before our scheduled departure to Duncan. You see, I would have liked a break from the writing routine, which, at that point, was pressing into the 45th consecutive day of intense wordsmithing. On Friday, December 20th for those who are curious, we left for Duncan, the home of the Simpson Hotel and refuge where Maliki, among other felines, resides. And while I penned not a thing all day Friday, I couldn’t face spending a week in Duncan, where I typically find an incredible focus to go further with words, without at least attempting to keep the fire going; thus I had to give up the idea of taking an extended break from my self-imposed toil of keeping my nose to the grindstone.
When Saturday morning rolled around, I took up my traditional spot in the parlor, resigned to the idea I would write. The empty page was emblazoned with the words “Part Two” and nothing else. I could still see the riveting beginning of part one, which I’d love to tell you about, but that would obviously arrive with spoilers, so that’s a no-go. What I will share is that I had this idea that the beginning of part two should also arrive with a zinger of epic proportions. I sat there, stewing in a lukewarm pot of word soup, unable to assemble the overcooked alphabet noodles that would dissolve under my touch before I could string them into words. There was nothing left to do. I would have to tap the literary genius of the “invisible hand” to help me craft a book I’m certain she would not want credit for, well, at least not in this wonky draft state. Upon telling my wife approximately where I was at in the story, she made a suggestion that precisely fit the situation and gave me the push that allowed me to find the onramp to continuing down the story highway.
You could say that Caroline kissed the frog (or toad in this instance). There I was, a reborn man, and by Saturday evening, I was able to bring 300 words to the page, a solid enough beginning, and by Sunday morning, traction was well established. Over the subsequent days, I didn’t exactly flounder but was operating at marginal capacity, eking out barely 1,000 words a day.
This could have been considered a partial failure, but at least it wasn’t a wash, and sometimes we just have to take the minor wins where we can find them. Then, out of the blue, or might I say, through the flue, a Christmas gift arrived in a dream, not delivered by Santa Claus, but to him, if you consider the idea that I might resemble him to some small degree. I woke before 4:00 from a lucid dream, that inspired me to sit up, grab my phone, and write furiously for the next hour, before I lay back down to continue sleeping. In the morning I transcribed this 1,037-word note that absolutely energized me. It was Saturday again, the day of our return to Phoenix following a walk over to the Duncan High School and another hour of writing in the parlor where, my inspiration still fueled by my dream, I quickly wrote another few hundred words. As for the dream, it’ll be edited and modified for inclusion in the book, should I find a proper place for it. Over the next week, I set into a routine of consistently pushing out more than 3,000 words a day; such was the inspiration from a dream that shook me from slumber at 3:45 on a cold, dark, post-Christmas Day.
