Wild, WIcked & Wacky Rewind from 2009

Since I'm trying to finish A Touch of Mother, and then I'll be in Las Vegas for two weeks, I'm reposting some of my favorite columns over the last eleven years. This one is from November 7, 2009, during NaNo.

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Word Count as of this Post - 8,422 words

I had a very strange dream last night--strange in its relative normalcy. Ususally, I'm Capt. Piccard guiding the Enterprise-D, or I'm saving the remains of humanity after an apocalypse, or I'm being chased by vampires down the dark Houston downtown streets.

In this dream though, I was at a writer's conference where Neil Gaiman was the keynote speaker. After the speech, Mr. Gaiman complained about he was oh-so-tired of restaurant food, and I invited him to my house for a home-cooked meal.

The house we arrived at wasn't my current home, but the house where my husband and I lived back in Ohio when we were first married. Mr. Gaiman then said he really wished he didn't have to go back to the hotel at all. I apologized for not having a guest room, but he was welcome to the living room couch. He graciously accepted and hugged me because he REALLY did not want to spend another night in a horrid hotel room.

Unfortunately, that's also when DH arrived home from work. Mr. Gaiman quickly steps away and defends my honor, to which DH replies that I only like men 6'5" or taller anyway. Mr. Gaiman, slightly offended, says that if it weren't for the terrible humidity, his hair would poof properly, therefore he would be taller than DH. With a quizzical look, DH asks why Mr. Gaiman doesn't find poofy hair annoying. The two men quickly launch into a discussion of the inherent quirks and pitfalls of poofy hair.

When my son arrives home from a visit to the neighbor boy's house, he's not terribly enthused about another of my writer friends attending dinner until I explained that this is the gentleman that wrote 'The Graveyard Book.' Mr. Gaiman's level of coolness rises in his estimation. He then proceeds to sell Mr. Gaiman on the excellent quality of my pumpkin pie. Mr. Gaiman replies, 'Your mum's pumpkin pie sounds lovely.' So now I have to rush to Kroger's since I have no pumpkin in the cupboard.

We have lovely meal of roast beef, homemade noodles, and green beans during which Mr. Gaiman and I discuss the respective merits and problems of our current wips. Once GK's in bed--after Mr. Gaiman has shown the proper respect for his Star Wars Legos collection--Mr. Gaiman and DH launch into a technological discussion of the problems with Vista and why you need ant traps in the house to prevent the them from nesting in your brand new modem.

A little bored with the men's technobabble, I resume working on my NaNo wip.

Is this boring? Well, maybe. But the dream version of Mr. Gaiman gave me some wonderful tips on my current project. For that, I thank him profusely.

Now, as long as Neil's next journal post doesn't begin with "I had the oddest dream where a fan invited me to her home after my speech at a writer's conference and she made the most marvelous pumpkin pie. . ."