I dream that people will love my book. Not everyone; but some, deeply.
I dream of plunging into my second novel.
I dream of eating all the mint chocolate chip ice cream I want. (I think this dream came close to coming true yesterday.)
Then there are the night dreams. Silly anxiety dreams like this one: my entire wardrobe has been destroyed by an incompetent dry cleaner. I’m traipsing desperately from one overpriced boutique to another, trying to find something to wear for my book tour, but of course nothing fits. Finally I get to one store that is just about to close and I scream ALL I NEED IS BLACK SOCKS!
The other night I dreamt that my father was still alive. Although he seemed fine and healthy, he was elderly and we both knew that he had reached the end of his life. He invited me into the apartment where he was living. I found it decorated with the most beautiful glass objects of all sizes – one sculpture so large it grazed the ceiling – in vivid translucent colors. As I walked through his space I realized that even though I’d never seen any of these things before, it made sense for him to have brought them all together, because he had always loved beauty. In his calm, orderly way, he brought out some boxes of things I could have when he was gone. Small boxes filled with shells and stones and stars from night skies that he’d collected through all the years of his lifetime.