The Writing Dream

I was in a busy, well-lit place that seemed home and office. Dozens of others were present, including my wife. People ) were milling around, talking to one another, examining my possessions – for it’s then that I realized it was my place – and offering desultory comments on my writing and past efforts. One odd-looking man, heavy, with slick, black receding hair and a black mustache and goatee on a bullet-head thrust onto a stout neck, was most outspoken. He mocked my collection of past writing efforts, done in the initial years in lab notebooks, saying things such as, “What is this stuff? What is it?”

I tried ignoring him as my wife talked to me. I was sitting at my computer at a table. Her comments confused me. I sought clarification. She was trying to talk to me about another manuscript of mine, telling me, “No, that other one. You know the one I mean.”

Finally, I stood. Walking over to the odd-looking guy, I said, “Stop talking about  my fucking writing. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t say another fucking word.”

He stumbled off, red-faced and shocked.

End of dream.


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