My Deep Dreams

I don’t know if I slept deeply but my dreams were vivid. But disjointed. I began to walk home barefooted but remembered I had a pair of flesh-colored trotters in my bag. Someone handed me a folded twenty dollar bill. I knew it wasn’t mine so I let it drop to the ground. I met a man from New Mexico. He asked me questions and became enthusiastic when I answered. My friend said I was flirting but I wasn’t. Sprinkled between these unrelated scenes were visions of city squares. Were they piazzas? Plazas? Drug stores.

I skipped the open readings last night and retreated (yes that was a retreat) to my room to write and sleep – but mainly to be alone. Too much of a good thing is not a good thing. How many friends does it take to revise a query letter? How many friends does it take to decide how many characters are too many. I can’t combine characters. The whole point of the novel is that history repeated itself. How can that be if the events are only happening to a single protagonist?

My first few times here I enjoyed the critiquing groups. Have times changed or have I. Now the atmosphere feels very competitive. Do I still write for the love of writing – for the silent echo that comes back to me from other writers? That is the query I should focus on today.