Last night I dreamed I was writing/struggling with an entirely different book. It featured a boy as the main character (this alone would be dreamy, since I’ve never managed to pull that off) and maybe a dog (ditto). In the dream, I woke up in the middle of the night knowing the perfect solution to a knotty plot problem. In the dream, I found a pen and clean sheet of paper miraculously close at hand (in real life how often have I scribbled illegibly on the cover of a New Yorker lying on the nightstand?) and effortlessly wrote notes.
When I woke up–for real–I knew at once it was a dream, yet it was so vivid I had to check the nightstand to be sure. No paper, no note. A wishful dream, for sure.
And yet…An hour later, as I was working/struggling with the book I actually am writing, good things began to happen. I figured some big stuff out. Or, it figured itself out–that’s always how it feels. As if the book is revealing itself. As if the story finally trusts me to know it.
Did my subconscious know what was coming? Or did the dream give me the boost of faith I needed to keep going?
I don’t know. But thank you, dream.