My current project has been making a lot of sense lately. Maybe too much sense. I had a dream about it, last night. Not the story itself. Actually, it was just a dream about the words and the paper they were written on. I had journeyed to a stone circle in the midst of a field. Soft, green grass covered the cold soil, and hills layered with rock surrounded this ancient burial ground of sorts. It looked like Ireland, or home. I had gone there with everything I had thus far written, all the pages of my stupidest venture yet clutched in my trembling little fingers, to seek out the greatest writing guru in the world. I found him. He was dusting off one of the stones, looking at the characters carved into it. I said hello, and handed him what I had. He looked at it, flipped a few pages, laughed a little, and gave it back.

“Is it done?”

“No,” I said.

“Come back here when it’s done.”

The dream ended there, I suppose.

Today it started making so much sense I got angry and started a sister project. I decided, every bit of steam that builds up from this thing I’m going to funnel into a new work. It will be called The Lint People and it will not make sense.

Several paragraphs in it started making sense.

For fuck’s sake, it even MEANT something.

I got angry again, and went off to play Super Mario Bros. 3.