This writing in my sleep thing is driving me crazy. It was bad this summer, and then I came back to school. Now I spend all my time explaining why William Blake used an iambic meter pattern on that one line even though the rest of the poem is in trochee, arguing over the anti-Semitic aspects of Shakespeare, and hashing out dysfunctional family relations in nineteenth century western culture identified through the lenses of Shelley, Godwin, and Wollstonecraft.
Long story short, I spend a huge hunk of time reading the magnificent compositions of people who are a lot more talented than I am, and suddenly the sleep writing has jumped into hyperdrive. (and astro-turf!)
Which is great, except that it makes writing in a cognizant state that much more difficult, because apparently, I can't write on that level whilst awake. It's like Bob Ross and painting. It never comes out of my fingers the way it looks in my head. It's kind of like the difference between botanical gardens and a shrubby chrysanthemum. Which is only more frustrating now because I know it's in there, floating around in my subconcious.
On that note, back to Frankenstein.
P.S. I'm so tired of Victor. No wonder his family didn't complain when he took off for college and didn't write or call for six years. I'll be glad to get rid of him too.