Back to the Real Home, back to editing . . . back to my dreams being a pain in my butt.
Though the drive was long and stressful, I managed, after a little rest, to get back into Her Demonic Majesty. There was a chapter waiting for me, the second one of Part Three, and since it was only about thirty-four hundred words, I figured I could knock it out pretty quick. With some help from Genesis (I’ve been listening to a lot of their live shows on YouTube, in particular one great bootleg recorded in Zürich in 1977), I got through it with few problems.
The next chapter was up, and it was about 9:30, but seeing how the waiting chapter was a little over fifty-four hundred words, I decided to leave it for today, which was tomorrow yesterday. I know: wibbly-wobbly timey-whimey. Don’t worry; I got this shit.
So it was off to bed with the Luna Moth. The window open–which I can’t do at The Undisclosed Location because of noise–and the cool air entering the room.
Then the dreams hit . . .
I’ve been remembering bits and pieces of my dreams lately, but nothing that I would call complete. But this one last night–it was vivid, it was long, and it was sort of condescending. To make a long story short, it seemed most people I knew had a device that would tell you just about everything important about anyone you picked out. Nearly everyone I knew was checking out things on everyone else–famous people, not-so-famous people, and people in our own little circle of friends.
When they got to me, the readout was always the same: blackness, with nothing written upon the dark background. The slate was, so to speak, completely blank.
The only thing everyone in the dream took away from this was that I was not an interesting person, and nothing important had ever happened to me.
This went on for what seemed like hours. Even with all the running around I did trying to find things to do, to find people to interact with, to conjure up some magic in this world that would make someone sit up and take notice–nothing.
The screen remained black.
Yeah, I know what you’re doing there, Subconscious. All this talk I’ve given, and the words that I’ve written, about sending off my novel–this is your way of saying, “Hey, loser, stick to coding, because that’s something you at least know how to do. If you’re gonna fail, fail at that.”
As people may, or may not know, I have made no secret that I have suffered from great doubt at times. I think everyone who gets it in their head to do something creative, to try their hand at making something that can be appreciated by other, always reaches points where they step back and say, “This totally sucks. Why am I wasting my time?”
I’m no different. I have had more than a few “Worst Novel Evar!” moments, and I believe I’ll have them for some time to come. It’s the way the creative mind works: you are your own worst judge, your own worst critic. Even when you’re creating something good, you think it’s the pits and should be left in an alley for the rats to consume.
But, I can look at this dream in another way . . . see, the screen was black, because the future, for me, hadn’t been written. If there ever was a tabula rasa, that device was it. My life hasn’t been written, and I can do anything I want. I don’t need to worry about perception, because that hasn’t occurred.
I can look upon this, not in a negative way, but as the Schrödinger’s cat of dreams. It can go anywhere, depending upon observation of events. Until there, there is not future, and without a future, there isn’t a past.
So bring it, Dreams. I’m two-thirds of my way through that big chapter, and I’ve got a story to write.
You really think you’re gonna hold me back?