Nightmares. I get them. So do a lot of people. Unfortunately, I get them almost on a nightly basis. Some of them are so horrifying that I wake up, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. It can take me hours to fall back asleep. I’ve described some of them to my writer friend who insists I should use them to write horror. I’m too scared to even try because they still frighten me long after the sun has risen.
Two nights ago, I had another one. On a scale of 1 to 10, with ten being the most terrifying, this one rated a 10. Now there were no super sized toys on steroids slashing through the human race, or fishes with metal scales sent to rid the world of children by devouring them. (Yep, those are mine.) In fact, if you look at what makes a dream scary…none of it happened the other night and yet, I can’t let it go.
In my dream, I was at my 30 year high school reunion. Not sure why as I’ve never been to one yet. But there I was talking to an old friend and he asked me, “Whatever happened to that book you wrote?” I felt this immense amount of shame and stuttered some lame excuse as to why it never happened. But I knew it was because I gave up. I quit writing.
In the days since then, that feeling of giving up on myself hasn’t faded. It’s intensified ten fold. Nothing is easier with my writing because of this revelation. I still struggle with my shortcomings, but I don’t ever want to feel that way in real life. So I sit in my chair typing away and wondering when I’ll be able to say, “Oh that book? It was published awhile ago.”