Ancient origins of sleep

I noted in an earlier post that the novel I am working on, The Sleep of Reason, began as a short story many years ago. The original work is at least five years old, and I think it is actually much older than that. (I could check my old journals to nail down the date, but — ugh! — what a bother it is to wade through those pages looking for something specific.) The short story fizzled out because I could not think of an ending for the interesting premise I had. Once I did have that ending, though, the novel-length story pretty much revealed itself to me, and I’ve been busy writing it ever since.

I adapted most of the short story material I had written so long ago into Chapter One of the novel. As I re-read that chapter, I can hear my voice from that time. There is an uncanny feeling to the experience. I feel much the same way as when I’m reading the very old entries in my journal. I get to revisit the person I was then, as shown in the way I was writing at the time.

It’s an odd feeling to me. It is as though I have captured the person I used to be and preserved him in words. I can see the difference between him and me over the years, and in a weird sort of way I am grateful for the opportunity and insight.

But I should get back to writing.

Explore posts in the same categories: Humble efforts, Sleep of Reason

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