Last night I think I had a dream about writing. I don't actually remember dreaming, per se, and I haven't written the sort of ridiculously good stuff I think I wrote in the dream, so I'm not sure what really happened at all. Either way, I'm glad that I wrote something, even if it was in a dream, or at least in the potentially false memory of a waking hallucination. It was really good work, too.

On a more factual level, I actually did write last night: a couple more pages of my novel, to be exact. I wanted to keep going, but I knew I'd regret it this morning. This raises an interesting question: how devoted am I to writing? Using last night as an example, it appears that I'm focused enough to come home and hammer out a couple pages after a long day, but not so enthralled that I foresake sleep and the possibility of dragging ass at work. This bothers me a lot, since it implies that work is actually more important to me than I claim it is. Either that, or it was just common sense: if you're tired, sleep. If the truth turns out to be the former, then I'll be thoroughly disgusted with myself. If it's the latter, I'll still be disappointed, because art's far more fun and worthwhile than common sense, as long as you're not in a dangerous situation that art can't extract you from.

End transmission. "This is Voivod mark III! Emergency!"