I keep dreaming about my adult novel, the one I’ve decided to send out to indie publishers but wanted to make a few character tweaks to before doing so. In the daytime I don’t have even a moment to think about that novel—with all these freelance writing assignments I said yes to, I’ve booked myself solid for two months.
But at night, under cover of sleep, the novel peeks its little head out. Last night I dreamed that I was talking about the end of the novel to a group of three redheaded girls. I knew two of them from work and the third, I’ve never seen her before. They asked is the end sad or happy? I said I truly believe that it’s happy, and hopeful, at the end. Maybe I’m the only one who sees the hopefulness, I said. E found it sad—and I turned to him (E was suddenly beside me) and he started saying all these wonderful things about the book (even in my waking life E is very supportive) and the three redheaded girls said they wanted to read it and E said they would soon, because it was going to be published. E seemed to know something I didn’t. Then I was pulled out of the conversation, suddenly aware that it was in the room with us, the novel. It was like a person, like when you’re talking about someone behind their back and you feel so sure they’re hovering just out of sight, listening in.