No, I'm not talking about a vampire book. I'm discussing the actual event, which is happening earlier and earlier each morning.
Dawn outside my window at seven.
Since I moved to Washington, I have been more aware of light and darkness. The extreme lighting shifts between summer and winter stun me more than I am willing to admit. This is the time of year every few weeks I feel, not a gentle nudge, but a jerk toward the sun. It's as though the planet earth readjusts itself in its path. Crocuses and daffodils push their green noses out of the soil, poppy seedlings dot the hillside. I keep my fingers crossed for continued mild weather from now until April.
This winter weather has been a blessing in many respects.
Just before dawn, I dreamed a story. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE dreaming plots. It's happened more than once to me, and I consider it a gift of some sort. I used to dream disasters when I was little. Then I dreamed things that would happen. Now I dream stories.
My plot is now in Word document awaiting expansion. It might be a few months, but I dreamed the book already.