It kind of sucks, but I never have dreams where I’m an NY Times best seller.
One, because I’m a realist. The NY Times is, after all, the holy grail of the collective “we.” I refer to all of us who emerge from the womb with prepackaged write-y bits—all the ink stains, dreams, and gears of literary cognizance—indelibly stamped into our little hearts and minds.
Two, let’s face it, I am a bit of a pessimist.
In my dreams, I’m sent to kill monsters and fail (with the occasional weird monster-sex moment, which I blame on HBO). Or I realize all of my teeth have fallen out. Or I trip down a flight of stairs, falling into the gaping abyss of—oh, hell, I don’t know what; ask your old psych professor or pick up a book and see what Freud or Jung or somebody else with a big couch had to say about me.
Am I a pessimist? Absolutely. Neurotic? Sure. Pervert? Okay, maybe. In need of therapy? Shut up, we’re not going there. On The NY Times best seller list?
Not in my wildest dreams.