Last night, I had a dream about my book. This never happens to me, though I’ve heard some authors say they dream their entire story. This seems blatantly unfair to me, but I digress.
Anyway, the dream wasn’t really about my characters, but it was about the feeling of being replaced, of seeing my guy (not McIrish, just some random guy whose name I can’t even remember now that I’m awake) fall out of love with me and in love with someone else. And yet I remained friends with them both, and so had to witness this slow transition.
So I jumped out of bed (no, really, I did), waking McIrish, who, startled at this once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, asked if I was okay. I ran to the computer and started typing. “Don’t talk to me,” I said, not looking up. “I have to remember this.” He’s used to such bizarre commands, being married to writer. Also in the happy marital package is me breaking off midsentence and leaving the room, or beginning a conversation about my book without telling him where I am, who the characters are and what’s changed since last time.
So I typed and typed, remembering the heartache of that dream, the helplessness, the pain of remembering what it was like to be The One for that lovely ex of mine, and now watching him give that same, steady, wonderful attention to someone else, and I had tears in my eyes and McIrish brought me a cuppa joe, and it was the best start to a Monday I’ve had in some time. Such is the life of someone who lives in her head 90% of the time.