A public service announcement to all writers.

Sleep with pen and paper by your bedside.

I usually do but I also don’t typically have trouble remembering my dreams.

If you are anything like me, you wake up several times during the night with an idea/dream that must be recorded.

Sometimes that idea feels like the Holy Grail about to settle into your grasp.

It’s probably not that great but you won’t know if you forget it before you write it down.

Imagine this.

Idea of a lifetime stirs you from your slumber.

You reach for pen to write it down.

It’s gone! You feel grains of sand shifting in your head.

You jump from bed, stumbling into a wall because your legs aren’t quite working yet.

You crawl around searching in the dark. Your only sober thoughts are on your dream and your grasp on it is weakening. It is flowing through the fingers of your mind.

You find the pen!

You start to write…

But you don’t. The dream is gone, save for a few grains.

Why bother?

No. Save those grains.

But I repeat. Always have pen and paper ready. Never go anywhere, not even to sleep, without some means of recording your thoughts. Who cares if you look nuts?

I’d sleep with pen attached to my hand if I thought it would do any fucking good. I’d graft a pen to me in some sort of necromantic experiment if I had the resources.

Anyways, I’ve woken up to writing I don’t remember though. So having them at the ready is definitely worth it.

Note to self… Build a device that records your dreams. For some reason I envision it recording to a VHS tape.

For those of you who give a damn, the rest of this post is about my dream and attempts to reclaim it.

Where to start? In the sidebar of my dream. To the left of the action was a string of tweets. I was writing, recording the events happening before me, bundling them up alongside some profound writing experiment.

It was perfect in every way. The writing was incredible. No one can say it wasn’t because it no longer exists for judgement. It felt that good though.

The scene was of two men with white hair. New characters. None of my established white-haired people.

That may simply say to you that I watch too much anime. It says something different to me. White hair on Nyth means something.

And no… I don’t watch too much anime. I hardly have time for anything outside the demands of life and writing. Barely time for writing.

What these two were doing? I don’t have the slightest fucking clue.

Alright, but only the slightest. I feel as though they were fighting. With each other, someone else, me? Don’t know.

Overpowering that was an incredible sense of mourning.

That’s it. That’s all that is left of my dream.

I’ve filled in the details consciously. It still came to be something pretty fucking awesome. But I can never know how it compares to the original.


I attempted to reclaim the missing pieces by trying to force a second dream. That didn’t do a whole lot of good. It actually cost me ten bucks.

So, these weird shelled bugs with green eyestalks were burrowed into my leg. I was freaking out. Only a little bit though.

To get them out, you pull the eyestalk… Carefully so it doesn’t break.

Your skin opens up as they come out. The relief and satisfaction of removing one is hard to describe.

Their shelled bodies were black and red. The red was probably just blood.

I’m canonizing these little monsters on Nyth. The leeches of Nyth.

Beyond that, ET was there and Sam Sykes kept tweeting at me to buy his books.

So later that day I bought The City Stained Red. I’m enjoying it so far.

Whether or not ET and Sam Sykes will be incorporated into Nyth’s canon is still up in the air.

Story tomorrow. Probably not a great one. I’m having a really off week.

Where the hell do I put this? Well… since the takeaway is…


We’ll go with Writing Advice?

No, Dear Reader. I’m not yelling at you. I’m yelling at me. Also at you. Also, Sam Sykes says buy his books. Or he’ll haunt your dreams.