When we sleep so close together that our hair becomes entwined.

My dreams were such this strange conglomeration of actual events from the weekend mixed with quasi-normal interactions with people that would turn into complicated problems. I was awoken nearly every hour or two because of thirst, or thunder, or having my legs pinned by the dog, or by Lowenstein pulling on me, or by me pulling on Lowenstein. I wish I could capture this strange sensation I would have in my half-waking state, where I would look at her and not recognize her, or more that even though her face was inches away from me, I could sense how far away the real her was because she was in a dream state I couldn't access. I kept trying to wake her up so I could take her back into my brain to hang out for the night. I think that's why I kept kissing her spontaneously in my sleep, some strange Sleeping Beauty type association and hopes that the magic would work.

I normally sleep through rain, but last night the lightning cracks echoed in the alley and made all three of us jump or flinch. Sophie kept burying herself closer and more on top of my legs because of the loud noises.

But despite fitful rest, I don't feel too horrible. I think because before bedtime I had a nice relaxing evening involving bubble bath and Anita Baker and Dusty Springfield. And I have clean sheets and towels and dishes and my clothes are put away. I always underestimate the power of clutter in my safe spaces to keep me from feeling safe and rejuvenated.

And Anita Baker. I'm always underestimating her.

We be all up in your crib like furniture.

Today I got that fire, like Juvenile. I've done all sorts of random writing AND I've done some work and I have big plans for work projects I'm doing this afternoon. I don't even have that typical feeling of "yeah, yeah, you're all talk, but then you'll spend four hours on the internet", because guess what? I have a deadline. I love deadlines. I should use this more to help get work done, but self-imposed deadlines just don't cut it the same. I need the fear of retribution and hellfire or joblessness and starvation or at least the "I'm very disappointed in you and know you can do better" lecture.

One of the attorneys has been on sabbatical for two months. She left behind some nice piles of papers for me to take care of. Have I done it? No, of course not. When does she return? Monday. So I'm doing many weeks of work in three days. This excites me.

I wish I knew the origin of my work pathology. I know I'm not alone in this need for deadlines. It's the main motivation in how my novel got written last fall. I knew I only had thirty days to do it, and each day had it's own mini deadline in the form of a required word count.

But I should remember there was a large amount of self-motivation in that task. I didn't win any money or award or anything for completing the task of National Novel Writing Month other than the pure satisfaction of saying "I wrote a novel", which feels surprisingly good and addictive to say. I want to write another novel. It's like a tattoo. I had only had my first tattoo for all of ten minutes before I got the craving for a second. I've been riding the need for a third tattoo for three years. I want ink so bad and need to just commit a jar of money to the cause and stop whining about finances. Or take a tattooist as a lover who will ink me for free or in exchange for sexual favors.

I think grad school would be good for my writing, assuming I had flexibility and creative freedom. But some structure in the form of assignments would benefit my need for discipline and deadlines, especially since I've started to structure myself. I'm in the habit of writing now. When I go more than a day without it, I notice. I've gone back to writing on paper so that I don't actually go more than a day. I've also started to do private journaling, stuff only for myself, to get off my chest and out of my brain so I'll be less tempted to just dump here in a public forum for the sake of validation. On days when I post four or five times a day, I know I'm just bored or anxious or unwiling to focus my energy in a constructive. I go for quantity over quality, which isn't always bad (in fact, that's the whole point of National Novel Writing Month), but I also want to practice distilling my day into more potent pieces. I want to write one paragraph that captures my day, or an anecdote, or a character, rather than eight paragraphs that include everything I've eaten and every song I've heard and every magazine ad that annoys me.

Unless of course I'm writing the stream of consciousness of a character who's talking about all those things.