Specificity

Went to sleep last night with a few writing problems. Not new ones. Old ones. Trying to figure out how to tie all my work together. That's always been a sticking point for me. After all, I tend to write about location and setting. My work grows around place. I might get inside the head of "The Other" but my plain people are Southern. These days I work for specificity in all ways when putting words to paper. Plot. Story. Character. Description. Mood. Metaphor. One links to the other. 

Specificity is always a challenge. 

I must have been stressed. I've got deadlines and deadlines. I have drawn lines in the dirt that I cannot cross. So all night long, I worked on this problem in my head and dreams. Fortunately I woke up with the problem resolved. But I am so tired. I kept waking up, writing things down. Sleep was more like naps. I thought of my mother often. My aunts. My people.

I've been to this house. In daylight and in dreams. Memory is a strange thing. But without it, we are nothing.