Stories from a life in progress.


Early this morning, just before I got up, I had a dream in which I had published a book.


Having written and published a book wasn't even the actual point of the dream.  That part was over; in this dream, I was trying to figure out what to say to a group of people who wanted me to come and talk to them, because I had written a book.

I mean, seriously.  Whoa.

I don't believe that dreams are literal predictors of what may happen, and I don't think they can be symbolically interpreted in any direct way.  Brains are too unique for that.  But dreams are made out of what brains have in them.  In dreaming, brains pull together experience and memory and imagination and emotion and tumble them all together across a big open playground.

I am fascinated, and more than a little astonished, that my brain can make up an accomplishment that I can hardly start to fathom in real life and present it so nonchalantly as something finished and done.  Published book?  No big deal.  We're on to other problems now.

I am fascinated and perhaps even slightly inspired. 

Writing a book?