Foggy morning

Next to my bed, I keep a pad of paper and pen (and flash cards and water and ear plugs and an alarm clock…). All the writer’s guides suggest this for writing down middle of the night inspirations. This is a fine plan. I’ve had great results. I’ve come up with solutions to difficult plot situations. Names of evil villainesses. Entire worlds. I’ve remembered doctor’s appointments. Occasionally the light of day reveals something less like a solution and more like the mystery of all mankind: “the plumber trumps! Seventeen children, be aware.” But usually the pad of paper holds something… useful.

This morning’s result:
One word.

Mist.

Is it a metaphor for my future? A laundry detergent? A new name for Sprite? A weather report?

I don’t remember waking. My dreams remain stubbornly opaque. My subconscious mind obviously felt “Mist” to be of enough import to rouse me to reach for the pen. I even capitalized the word.

Hmm. I wonder how many seeds of “great American novels” have been lost in just this way. Born, scribbled in the night, and lost in the morning.