Hung Up in a Dream

I got hung last night.  Just after seeing my friend hung.  Knew after watching her die that I would be terrified and in agony for only a short time.  It didn't make the prospect any easier.  Then I woke up.  With a terrible headache, like a hangover headache except I wasn't hung over.  My heart was thudding, in my head and in my chest.  I was dead scared.  Pretty foul nightmare.

So what does it mean, being hung?  Being hung up?  Being trussed and unable to move (forward) or at all.  Do feel that actually.   Being stuck, however, isn't terrifying.  I couldn't watch her die.  I did turn away at the last minute, coward that I was.  I was so full of my impending death I had very little emotion left for her.  Have no idea who she was.  An aspect of me I suppose.  She was about 20 feet away and something, a bookcase? table? blocked the view of her lower body  I could only see her head and shoulders. 

I got up and drank a glass of water.  When I woke in the morning my headache was no more.  Feel that it wasn't a menopausal headache, which I do get sometimes, blasted things strike in the middle of the night, but was related to the nightmare.

So I haven't worked on my drawing for days.  Have no idea what to do with it.  I haven't sketched.  I have finished an Elizabeth George book instead of doing anything creative myself.   Don't like  when I coast along, going through the motions and don't make anything. 

Ran into a ex-neighbour last week.  She separated from her husband and moved away.  She was visiting some friends at the end of the road.  She's getting a book published, she told me.  She's working on 8 books, the first one should be out by August.  She has a publisher and an editor.  She's had the manuscript read by a few friends and it makes them cry and laugh just where she wants them to cry and laugh. 

I was dumbfounded.  This woman is the last person I would think of as being a writer.   Shows my arrogance I guess.  What is it about writing that makes it an elitist activity?  If she has something to say, she doesn't need an Oxford Dictionary vocabulary to say it. 

She's using a nom de plume, she said.  So how will I know which book to buy and read?  She said she'd let me know and took my email address.  Part of me, the suspicious part, remembers the stories she told about the stallion she used to have.  This magnificent warmblood stallion  would set the show world on fire.  And that's all I heard about him, what she said.  Is this book the same?  She said the book takes place in reality and in fantasy and it bore some resemblance to 50 Shades of Grey except not so slutty.  Had I read 50 Shades?  No, I hadn't.  So I'll wait and see. 

I want it to be true.  I'm not a writer but I've written a book (bad) and a half (worse) so it can be done.  Another part of me, the green envious part, screams how is it SHE can write, is about to be published, and I can't?  Huh?

I can draw, however.  If I have a talent and a strength, that's where it is, if I'd just get out of my own way and do it.  For that's the problem.  I'm so afraid of doing the wrong thing that I do nothing.  Silly, huh?