In the Virtual Bank Line

I had two distinctly different dreams last night, which is only significant because the end of the first one kept coming into the second one in a kind of "WTF?" way.

At the end of the first dream, my friend Mortaine had a special kind of bell. It looked like a clear glass Christmas tree ornament, but inside it had three bells that looked like finger cymbals. They were one above the other, each with a hole in the middle so that tiny golden beads could trickle through, chiming the bells inside. She held it in her hand and, moving her hand slightly, made beautiful, trilling music with this tiny little thing. She told me that each bell produced a different note, and that the three notes together were especially pleasing. The notes were E, A and N. That's right. N.

I woke up from that dream thinking "N? What the hell does N sound like?" And then went back to sleep, but throughout the next dream, I kept thinking "E, A, N? That can't be right."

In the next dream, the Pirate and I had moved to a cute little neighborhood into a townhouse. All the houses shared walls, and we could all see into each other's yards. Our bedroom was on the ground floor, and the window was right above our bed. The blinds we bought were just a tiny bit too big for the window, and the breeze from the open window (it was hot) made them scrape softly against the window frame. It was right in the Pirate's ear, driving him crazy. I snuggled up behind him and put my hand above his head, holding the blind down to keep it from scraping.
{N? No. Not N.}
When we got up, we had to go to a party at my friend's house. My parents were going to be there, and a lot of our neighbors - it was going to be a big thing. I thought it was just going to be a barbecue, but it turned out to be a trunk show of jewelry - they were still setting up as the Pirate and I arrived. We talked to other guests for a bit, and then I wandered off to look out the window.
{E. A. N. E. A. N.}
The neighbors had caught a fawn and were using it to entice its mother across the creek. The mother was understandably nervous about trotting over, and it wasn't even clear to me whether they intended to capture the mother and kill her or just to get both mother and baby out of the way somewhere else. There was a boy - 8 or 10 years old - who wanted to pet the fawn, but the neighbors kept shooing him away and the boy was crying.
{It must mean something - be short for something. There's no N.}
Back inside the party was underway, and people were lining up to dance. They had a squaredance caller who was calling out the moves slowly so that even inexperienced square dancers could follow along. There were eight couples who were all in a line (instead of being in two squares). Now, remember, this is a jewelry trunk show. And who buys more jewelry? That's right. So, the couple are all dancing, and at one point, the women have their backs to their partners, and they lean back with their partners holding them under the arms, and kick one leg out. The caller then yelled "Now drop 'em!" and the men all dropped their partners, who fell on their butts to the floor. The whole place went quiet.
{If there's a note N, is there a key N?}
The caller came in quick with "Gentlemen, you can make it up to your lady by buying her some lovely jewelry!" And, while most of the women let their partners off with mean looks and expensive purchases, one woman with long, white-blonde hair started screaming at the square dance caller, telling him how dare he make her husband humiliate and hurt her just to sell some cheap costume jewelry! Then she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. When she'd composed herself, she left the house, got into her car and drove off, leaving her husband behind. I watched the whole thing, thinking "Good for her. He was an idiot to drop her like that."
{E. A. N. N. N.}
The Baby Goddess came running into the room, telling me that I had to come and walk with her to her daycare. It wasn't her daycare in real life. This was a series of small buildings joined by corridors. The corridor that the children entered in the daytime was built to look like a forest path. There were round stones set into the concrete of the walkway, and everything was overgrown with moss. The buildings had columns that looked like giant tree trunks, and in the window of an office, there was a cutout of a kindly-looking old lady with the words "I'm watching you" above her head. Next to her was a video monitor where the children could see themselves walking down the path. (As I was telling this dream to the Pirate and the Baby Goddess, she said "That sounds really scary!")
{bEAN, clEAN, dEAN, lEAN, mEAN, wEAN}
There was a tiny door leading down to a sort of basement looking place, and I asked the BG what they kept in there, and she told me that it was where they kept Sarah. Sarah was one of the little girls at daycare, but because she was small, she stayed in that little room. I opened the door and saw a room that was about 4 feet tall, and perhaps six feet on a side. Along one wall there was a bench, and a tiny table in front of it. The only light coming in was from the cracks in the floorboards above. It was inconceivable that the daycare would be keeping a child in such a hole. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, a tiny little person popped up and said "Is it time to go home?"
{Where would N show up on the clef?}
I didn't know what to say. It was Saturday afternoon. "Time to go home" would have been nearly 24 hours ago, and yet the girl, who looked to be a very tiny 4-year-old, didn't seem distressed at all. She was still wearing diapers and seemed to be a little addled, but pretty clean and cheerful. I was getting myself all worked into a state, wondering where the girl's mother might have been and how I was going to find the woman. I had changed her diaper and was trying to figure out her tights. They weren't proper tights - they were made out of cotton gingham, fitted to the leg and fastened with buttons all up the outside of the leg. They looked like doll clothes. The feet were much too small for the little girls' feet, which looked bloody from being jammed into too-small tights and shoes, but the little girl didn't seem to notice as I put the clothes back on her. I was getting more and more panicky - so much seemed to be wrong with the situation, and yet I was the only one who was noticing it or taking it to heart.
{THERE IS NO N!}
I woke up with my heart and head both pounding. Apparently, I'm still sick.

Taking Notes

I got the contributor's copy of my little magazine article, but still no word from the agent who promised to get back to me "much sooner" on the second submission.

I think it's time to do another round of submissions, although I must admit, I'm a little upset with myself. Other people I know who are writing have volumes of work that they're shoveling out the door with both hands. Due to my own perfectionism, I tend to have only a few offerings at a time that are ready to go out.

*sigh*

I have started a new writing notebook. For years, I have carried around a little green leather notebook that I have jotted down bits and phrases in so that I could save them for later. I like hearing things that people say that are particularly juicy, like "No hair is okay if you have really bushy eyebrows." People say weird things, and I like being there to chronicle them.

But this particular notebook is where I have been actually sketching out the skeletons of the projects I am working on. I've gotten to the point where my ability to work is so sketchy that it's best if I jot down everything about an idea that I can jot down so that when I do have some time to concentrate on it, I have a good idea of what I'm doing.

Thus far, my book is rapidly filling up with ideas that I don't have time to flesh out. But I'm not bitter.

The Bitter Tang of Success

I know now what it is that's been dragging me down lately.

It's success.

In November, I got word that a nonfiction piece I'd submitted in October had been accepted. The piece was short, the pay nominal, but it's an acceptance and that's what counts. The minute I got word, I started hating my job. I wanted to stay home and be able to get to work on all the ideas I had flitting through my brain.

I finished my Nanovel, but I wasn't all that excited about it. The plans I have need a little more work than I was able to give this one. The contract job I'm working at right now means that I have a boss who thinks that because I'm a contractor, I'm not subject to the normal rules that everyone else adheres to. I should be available 24/7, I should have no life of my own that might require my attention. I must be desperate enough to want to do nothing but work.

I got back on track and buried my head in work, but then along came a rejection that was better than anything I'd ever gotten. I note that actually called my writing genius and expressed deep regret that he hadn't been able to convince other editors to publish my story. Again, I'm sure that the pay would have been nominal, but it would have been something.

That note came on the same day that I had driven into work through one of the worst traffic jams I'd ever seen. It had taken me over an hour to drive the last four miles, and for the rest of the day my left eye was twitching the way it does when I'm deeply stressed and unhappy. A couple of days of working from home has fixed that, but I'm still resentful as hell that I'm working on this and not on something I'd rather be doing.

Back in December, I'd gotten a rejection of my first novel from an agent who said that they loved the work, but just didn't feel they'd be able to sell it. They asked to see something else I'd written, so I sent them another novel of an entirely different flavor - Genius of Want. The December rejection had come fourteen months after I had initially sent them the manuscript, and they promised in the letter to give the next one a quicker turnaround. I sent the next manuscript off two or three days after getting the news from them, and I have no idea what to expect, but I can't help but have some high hopes.

The problem is that those high hopes are making it really difficult to concentrate on making a living. It's not my boss's fault that I have literary aspirations. It's not her fault that I'd rather be creating swirls of magic than bringing my considerable organizational skills to bear on her subscriber communications.

I just can't help but realize that every other successful author I've heard about has bitten the bullet, made incredible sacrifices and NOT WORKED A DAY JOB while they were working on the novel that made it for them.

I keep wishing that something will happen to make that possible for me, but that's unlikely.

In the Virtual Bank Line

It's been a while, but I've had some pretty mundane dreams lately.

Last nights' dream was a little disturbing and I don't even really understand why.

I was jogging through my old neighborhood, back in Phoenix. There's a maze of condos there called "Concord Village," and in the dream, it had been given over to some sort of military training complex. As I was jogging along, I turned down a path and came upon some guys showering under an upturned hose. They weren't in a camp shower or anything - just hanging out in the middle of a public pathway, naked as could be. They started to laugh as I jogged through, but I told them they didn't have anything I haven't seen before and kept running. It was kind of funny, I thought.

As I jogged, I realized I was holding someone's towel. I slowed down as I came to a house that I remembered seeing as a kid. I looked at the front door, and it was open, so I went inside. The place was two stories and filled with rustic-looking antiques. There were three cradles that looked as though they were made from bark, and three trundle beds and three high chairs. They looked at least a hundred years old. I managed to walk all through the house without seeing anyone. It looked like a tiny little museum of old pioneer artifacts, but when I came out the other side, I realized I had left my towel inside somewhere. I put my face to the window and saw it on the stair railing. Just then, a woman in her mid-thirties came out of an upstairs room and saw me. I was going to run, but she opened the door and led me inside, telling me all about how her grandmother had collected all these things, and how she and her two brothers had been the babies who had used them.

I left the woman's house and went back toward my own place. As I neared my condo, a little kid came running toward me, showing me some treasure she'd found. She was babbling on about it, holding my hand as I went toward my place. As we got nearer, I realized that this was a kid who belonged to the daycare just across the passageway.

I went to my place and changed clothes, and the minute I was done my best friend from grade school showed up. She wanted to go shopping for something, but she was being really mysterious about it. We went to a strip mall that had one shop with no sign outside. Inside, the whole place was full of huge chests of tiny drawers. The drawer fronts were all carved wooden filigree with tiny elephants on them whose trunks served as the drawer pulls. I looked inside a few of them and found carved wooden rings, bracelets and necklaces of various sizes and colors. There were tapestries in back, black hangings with bright weaving through them depicting various Latino left-wing heroes. My friend was looking around with her nose wrinkled.

I had no idea what she could have been looking for or how she knew about the place, but it was obvious that she was disgusted by what she'd found. I realized that she was just checking the place out. She was going to report back to someone else, who would then take some action I couldn't begin to predict. I told her that I thought she was a bad person and walked away back across the parking lot.

On my way home, I went through an open-air market. I started going up and down rows of market stalls filled with all sorts of things - food, clothes, housewares, auto parts - and I was looking for something specific, but I couldn't remember what it was.

I was still looking when I woke up.