as writers dream….

As nighttime settles peacefully into its patterns of sleep…so does the writer.  The night’s movements are alluring, intoxicating, celestial as they dance into the breaths of the writer.  In and out, in and out, slowly, serenely, the night’s gentle rhyme is a seduction—luring him deeper and deeper into his unconscious world of creativity.

His body becomes unyielding to the night’s softness–sheets, pillows, darkness.  He finds himself floating easily away from the turmoils of the day and into the space of dreams.  With each breath, his rhythms soften as an easy deep peace settles over him.  As his limbs fill with air, the writer floats into his nighttime office—his nocturnal storytelling realm.

In the recesses of his mind, he sits in his mental chair as his dreams dance around his thoughts and his mind labors–designing, administering, visualizing the stories of his heart.

First enter the fantasies which he controls, but as he is lured deeper and deeper into his unconsciousness, he is no longer governor of his subconscious.  His mind starts to weave his fantasies into tales and then stories.

Working into the wee hours, exhausting his mind into submission, the writer lays unknowingly in his state of creation—awakening mentally drained in a momentary stupor, he wonders if he ever really lost consciousness this night—aware that he has dreamt another story.

On this night, while the rest of the world slept peacefully, he was one of the lucky ones—he was able to grab another handful of imagination–another vision, another story from the nocturnal recesses of his mind—a place that awakens only when the nighttime sounds melt softly into the darkness, a place that can only exist….as writers dream.

I’m tweeting to nobody, but there must be pancakes somewhere….

I tweet several times a day….really funny stuff–probably my best advice, observations, and jokes, but no one sees it. I’ve been told this is a generational thing; that my friends simply don’t tweet. If my friends don’t tweet @me, who will?

I follow wonderfully talented strangers; those with unusual and strange talents follow me.  My first follower, followed every Alexis D. in the U.S.—all 347 of us. Weird, right? My second follower’s likes/interests included the most obscene hobby/activity I’ve ever seen.  I’m not even sure if it’s legal.

Apparently, it is a bad thing to be followed by someone with no followers which explains why no one follows me.  I have only one follower. This is close enough to zero to make me the weirdo. To put my shameful number of 34 tweets, 1 follower, following 11 into perspective, look at the stats of my secret mentor:

Justine Musk has 6,909 tweets, 10,519 followers, and is following 7,849. Good for her; bad for me.  I started following her after she posted the most brilliant piece of writing I’d ever seen “…..there must be pancakes somewhere…..” Brilliant, right? She had me at pancakes and I’ve been searching for them ever since.

The postings I follow and try to mimic are random, thought provoking, funny, serious, and at times, poetic. I’m just starting to catch on. I guess it’s a good thing no one is listening to me.  I know I’m not.  I’m not taking myself seriously, either. I’m too busy searching for pancakes and followers, and when I do finally find them I will probably still be tweeting to nobody.