Life on Prozac

The Artist: "Your lack of organization makes it harder for ME to get any work done."

Me, hanging head: "I know."

"What? No, defensiveness, no tears?"

"No, I'm getting much better at taking critisism."

"I think it's just the drugs."

And, of course, he's right. I'm much more even keel. I have a hard time crying (before I was crying daily, sometimes at the office), even when I wish I could. I also feel like I'm resonating at a higher, more jittery frequency. Sometimes I'm lying in bed and can hear myself humming--not my voice, but my inner-most self. I'm not neccessarily more focused at work, but I don't really care.

I'm also dreaming. Never in my life have I had such vivid dreams. In fact, in the past I've rarely even remembered that I dreamed at all. Now I've got full-blown movies in my head with characters and plot development and craziness. (Last night's dream: The Artist was pulling apart the house in order to make more space for painting--and building a time-machine.)

A prozac-induced dream has given me the seed for a novel (No. 25: National Novel Writing Month). Some of the disparate parts: Portland's Shanghai Tunnels, a Chinese Jew, the tailor's 13th daughter, the death of a Royal Rosarian, an unhappy department store heiress, mid-century modern architecture and the Oaks Amusement Park.

Can all these things be part of the same story? It worked in my dream!

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PREVIOUS COMMENTS

I can't wait to read it!!!!Can some jerk slip on his own phlegm and hit his head, pleasepleaseplease?
rosie Homepage 02.15.07 - 6:23 am