The Death of Dreams

I had a horrific nightmare last night--one of those dreams that makes you wake up with a pounding heart and a sick, heavy feeling in your chest.

In the dream, an agent had invited me over to discuss The Roses of Carrion. She invited another author over as well--this petite little thing named Julie (or was it Jenny?). We sat at this long, boardroom style table and the agent handed us each a file folder, with sections of our work inside that had been commented on and marked up so much that it appeared someone had chopped off a limb and draped it over the file. The agent began critiquing my work and I agreed with most of her points. Somehow, a full chapter of mine had turned into a bizarre laundry list of actions and descriptions. Some weren't even sentences--just words. Like push and deranged.

Anyway, as the agent was discussing JennyJulie's work, I fell ASLEEP. When I opened my eyes, they were both looking at me rather dissapprovingly. (gee...I wonder why) The agent proceeded to assign us each an essay to write and left the room for an hour or so. Well, JennyJulie was scribbling away with ease and I, in my gracefulness, knocked a glass of water over my paper, drenching it. JennyJulie looked irritated. I ducked my head out in the hall and asked the agent for another piece. She looked irritated too.

So after I finish my paper, the agent comes back in and tells us we can pick up our graded papers on the way out, from this filing cabinet in the corner. JennyJulie gets hers and I'm shocked to see she got a C+. But when I pull open the top drawer, I see a B and squeal with delight...only to be reminded by the agent that my paper's in the second drawer and it has a D-. On my way out, trying to salvage as much of my dignity and professionalism as I can, I mention the details of Eighth Grade Bites to the agent. To which, she snarls and says, "Yeah...why don't you send that along when you finish it."

JennyJulie and I are walking down the stairs outside of the office and I say, "Wow, it looks like you nailed that interview."

She says, "No doubt."

I took a deep breath, trying not to cry at how horribly it had gone for me, and said, "I don't think I'll ever get an agent."

To which, Julie replied with a matter-of-fact tone, "Maybe you should stop writing."

I used to dream about monsters in my closet, about bloodthirsty beasts under my bed. Now I dream about things like this.