It’s 3 a.m. The dream wakes you, scaring you with its intensity, shaking you with its fever.
By day it trails you, clings to you, seeps into your skin. At first, you tell no one. Then, little by little, the dream finds words, finds its way out of your mind and into your reality.
You are forever changed.
Your family and friends tell you they love you, but they’ve heard enough about your imaginary world. They think about screening their calls.
You reassure them it’s not some ploy you invented to steer conversation away from the fact that you are, once again, single. (Well…)
You attempt to prove it by weaving your cloth of words during dinner. You begin speaking faster and faster, begin moving through the plot with stealthy determination to reach the best part — the twist — before you have used up all the goodwill in the room.
They stop you too soon.
You change tactics. You describe the cover of the book, moving your hands carefully in the air to illustrate the design, the one you saw in your dream. You talk about sequels, movies, television pilots, and (maybe best of all) book signings, the ones with screaming fans lined up around the block.
Oh, yes, this book is a blockbuster.
Now, there’s just the little matter of writing it.