Last night as I was trying to go to sleep—I'm a slow-sleep insomniac, which means that it can sometimes take me upwards of an hour to power all the way down—I found myself wondering, in that half-place that only exists when you're caught between consciousness and Neverland, whether I'm so reluctant to sleep right now because I'm half-convinced that I'm in the middle of the longest, most detailed linear dream I've ever experienced. And that one day, I'm going to open my eyes and it will be December of 2008 all over again, when I was lonely and scared and had no idea what I was going to do about my future.

Anxiety and mild "my series is over, what do I do now" depression aside, I sometimes look at my life and I'm just staggered by the unlikeliness of it all. I had a book come out on Tuesday. Tomorrow, I'm leaving for Disneyland with my mother, my sister, and my best friend. I have cats that can be charitably called large, and uncharitably called props from a horror movie. I have a movie option. I'm reprinting my fourth album, because it's almost sold out. I have some of the most amazing, interesting, articulate friends and fans and readers in the world. I have an agent who, frankly, could not be more perfect for me if I had been allowed to design my own agent in a lab.

Even the little details are too good to be true. There's an immensely popular line of fashion dolls modeled on famous monsters; Fringe got renewed; Doctor Who is back on the air; the X-Men are awesome again; James Gunn has a video game about a chainsaw-wielding blonde cheerleader who fights zombies with high kicks and snark. Basically, it's like the universe has been rearranging itself to suit my deepest desires, and if not everything is perfect, that's because too much perfection is unbelievable. The world is trying to add veracity to my dream.

This is why I don't like to sleep very much.

I'm too afraid of waking up.

So last night, my body decided it was time to hit the shiny red STOP button on my life, by bringing on a bell-clanging migraine of the sort that I only have once or twice a year. I went to bed at six o'clock, figuring I'd sleep until eight or nine, and have trouble going to bed, but feel much better. Instead, I slept until seven the next morning, and woke up groggy, dehydrated, and feeling faintly like I'd been hit by a truck.

Needless to say, I did not go into the office today.

Instead, I have done ALL THE WORK here at home, and written ALL THE WORDS, in-between unplanned naps and episodes of Criminal Minds. I'm on season three now, which is very comforting and reassuring. By season three, most shows have found their feet, settled in for the long haul, and stopped shifting their perspectives without warning. It's a nice place to be. And serial killers make me feel better.

I'm hammering away on Midnight Blue-Light Special, hoping to buy myself Sunday as a free day for processing edits on Ashes of Honor, since every little bit counts. I'm also working on the page proofs for Discount Armageddon, and writing another John/Fran story set decades before the start of the series. Literally decades; they're the parents of the POV character's grandmother. It's one of my favorite universes, because it's both very open and accessible, and very close and snug. I love that sort of narrative contradiction.

The cats have loved this last day. Thirteen hours in bed, followed by hours and hours without leaving the house? Feline bliss. They'd be happier if I would feed them more than twice, but right now, they're taking what they can get, and what they're getting is my total attention. I'm a little vexed about today being a no-mail holiday, since I wanted to both send and receive mail. Since I didn't make it outside, I should probably let the vexation go.

And that's my Friday. Hope you're all gearing up to an amazing weekend!

Last night I dreamt that I had somehow become involved with a television show based on the old Gammarauders RPG, and that jimhines had been hired to write the novelizations of said show. He wrote a whole book focusing on one of the characters I'd introduced to the show, a sort of candy-cane punk rock girl who drove a giant air-breathing octopus (it made sense in context). I, of course, read the whole book, because I am me.

I was having a discussion with Alan at Borderlands about how I felt about the whole thing after I finished it. "Did you like it?" he asked.

"I did," I said. "I hope it sells lots and lots of copies and makes lots and lots of money."

"Is she really supposed to be the missing princess of Thatllbetheday?"

"Actually, yes. See, there's this note at the crypt of Buddy Holly, and..."

...and then I woke up, before I found out what the note said. But wow, is my subconscious weird sometimes.