Let me see if I get this right…
I dreamt last night about having written a book that I couldn’t remember having written, and when I woke up I had forgotten all about it.
In my dream I discovered to my surprise and puzzlement that I had written a novel (somehow) during only one year, and I couldn’t fathom how I had done it.
In my dream I backtracked that year, and I rediscovered the story. I had written it in a rush and had hardly had a break. It was my twelfth completed novel and I felt good, felt pride, as I do with every completed novel.
Then it was fading, like dew a summer morning. And I’m okay with that, really, since I have tons of unrealized plots and stories in my head already. I figured I forgot it because I deemed this one unworthy.
But as always, I can’t help but wonder. What was it this time? Where did it go? Reading a book or watching a movie means that you may experience an entire life during the time you’re reading or watching, and that was what faded to an ember early this morning.
It isn’t truly gone, but still there, churning through my mind, to rise and reappear again, when the time is right, either as the same story or mixed with others into a new and exciting whole.
It will never go away, but remain, lingering, within and without.
My mind is a boiling volcano of creation and I just love that.