Last night, I dreamed I stood across a counter from my writing instructor. He looked like Dumbledore but acted like Snape, reading other students’ work aloud in derisive tones.
He told me, oh no, he hadn’t mocked mine. Mine was beautifully written. Wonderful. One should, however, not give up so easily. These things were not to be taken lightly. Then, darting his eyes around the room, he lowered his voice and shoved a contract in my face, urging me to sign it. Quickly.
The text was illegible. I was worried.
It was all just nonsense to me until I told my husband about it. He explained it to me without missing a beat.
It always embarrasses me when others can see the meaning behind my words better than I can. What will my novel say about me when it’s finished?
*And you’re too weak to stand so you crawl on your belly, and you realize you not only haven’t studied, but you haven’t been to class in months.