Dream A Little Dream

Sometimes your brain is sympathetic to you. 

Remember how over on the side, I have this cute lil link that takes you to a place where you can buy my dad's book? It's cool, ain't it! Well let me tell you about my dad's book. He dreams about it. He doesn't dream about it because he wrote it, though I'm sure that might happen... but he wrote it because he dreampt about it. Drempt. Dreamed. Whatever.

It's an amazing book, and I was always blown away by the fact that it was a dream. 

Oh I love dreams.

I decided to write a book.

My dad did.

The guy who wrote Captain Underpants did.

Why can't I? 

Captain Underpants really sucks! I write better blogs than that!

So I'm going to write a book. 
But inspiration is hard to come by.
I just was wishing and wishing that I could have a dream like my dad's.

Well I've had dreams. I dream all the time. Every night. I love my dreams. But do they make sense? No. They do while I'm dreaming, but when I wake up and think about it, I realize that they're the ravings of a mad man. Or woman. They heavily involve animals that float, not fly, and incredibly vibrant colors.

Not the kind of book I want to write.

But lately my dreams have started making sense. And I wake up and write them down in a little book. Not because I'm going to write a book based off a dream like my dad did, but maybe because I'll read through them some day and find inspiration somewhere for a book.

Because I really want to write a book.

Where do you go to get inspiration?

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