I've broken open the first draft of my novel which I finished just before Christmas and am currently attempting to improve it. A lot. A-lot-a-lot. How's the writing going? Hmmm. Let's say, I dreamed the other night that crocodiles ate my hands - both of them. I just had the arms and nothing at the end of flapping sleeves. Nice huh? I didn't even swallow down a little spoonful or two of that yummy green cold medicine before I went to sleep. I didn't even take a swift toke on the crack pipe. You don't need a dictionary of dreams to figure out my subconscious is not impressed with what I've done so far. I've thought about exactly what it might mean (and God knows, if I was still in counselling, this one would keep my psychotherapist going for weeks.) Among the options, I figure:
1. give up - you've not got the skill set
2. really, you should give up now before your hands drop off in shame at this tosh
3 (bearing in mind, you're supposed to be everybody in the dream and that includes the crocodiles)I'm damaging myself permanently by carrying on.
Ho hum. Maybe I'll get myself a nice job in PR.
"Why exactly are you interested in a job in our press office may I ask?"
"I thought it might help the nightmares go away. Can you hear the voices too? They're loud today aren't they?"
That should clinch it.