Last night I dreamed a wonderful dream.
In it, my novel became a worldwide phenomenon. I was frantic and frazzled, thrilled to the point of tears, the New York Times spread out on the table with my name at the top of the bestseller list, my phone ringing off the hook like it all happened in a single day and everyone I’ve ever met wanted to congratulate me.
But I have this dream all the time. I’m obsessed with it. I can’t escape it and I don’t wanna.
During the day, I work as a gardener in the landscapes of others’ dreams. I think, hey, if I can recognize in a client’s manuscript that impalpable quality characteristic of a writer on the verge of landing a literary agent or a book deal, and I can help give them the slight nudge they need to reach that tipping point, then maybe—just maybe—my delusions about my own capabilities aren’t delusions at all.
And from time to time it happens. I get to enjoy the vicarious thrill of someone else reaching a higher plane. One step closer, one step higher. I pour a drink and raise my glass to the success of a stranger in some other part of the world.
And then, at night . . .