I had the thought since college and it reappeared last night as I avoided a small panic before bed and then again this morning as I implanted my bad dreams (of losing teeth) into memory.
And they say you can remember your dreams by reiterating them to someone in your wakefulness. So here, I'm reiterating this dream to you. I will write a book.
If I was in the business of making disclaimers, I'd say that I make no promises for its publishing. It might live in a drawer (a metaphorical place on my hard drive). I might not start to write it until next year, but at least I have an idea now. I know what's awake enough inside of me to finally put pen to paper. And who knows, maybe it'll be good. Maybe it'll be crap.
I'm not ready to share what it is because then I'll be locked into that idea. What I will tell you is that is will not be a novel. I will not be making anything up. And no, it's not my autobiography. I'm [I hope!] not that shallow. It will be a commentary. It will be like blogging, but all in one place and all well-thought-out.
This girl also inspires me. Her "Field Notes" read my mind:
1. Last night crossing over the highway to the train, the city’s skyline over my left shoulder was clouded in gloom—completely invisible. The other day B said, eyeing the fog, “It’s like someone took an eraser to the tops of the buildings,” and it is.
2. My bangs are cut so bluntly, that every time I pass a mirror my heart whelps out in horror.
3. The office is filled with heavy intermittent sighing. I want to hide behind this wall and call out, “Is your life really that bad?”
4. When my day-to-day becomes well, very day-to-day—very wash my hair in the morning, button up my shirt, trudge to the train, stare at this computer, go home and make potatoes, begin again—I think about buying a plane ticket. It’s true. I think about wandering a different city with my hands balled up in my pockets, my throat thick from not speaking. But suddenly I am fiscally responsible and can’t justify allocating any money toward what is now egregiously frivolous. If it isn’t the money then it’s the idea of leaving, alone, and stretching out in bed without B beside me.
4a. I dated a boy, J, who landed in Chicago only after he’d been living in New York and then Seattle and Missouri, or wherever really. The point is that he’d bounced, consistently for years. His parents had a little house off the train line that feeds directly into the airport. One time, after several margaritas on his mother’s kitchen floor well after everyone had gone to bed, he said to me, “It is dangerous to ride the train home after work, because there is always the threat of continuing right onto the airport and never coming back.” That being said, that was a summer of instability and mosquito bites.
But my book wont be like the above bullets either.
So, on this Flip It Friday, tell me your dreams? In other words, what would you do if you knew you could not fail?
