Had me a nightmare the other night, and it was a dilly. I dreamed I was lying in bed asleep–that’s the kind of dream that easily passes for reality–when I heard a woman’s voice distinctly say, “Oh, stop it!”
She sounded like she was right outside my bedroom door. And who was she talking to?
Instantly wide awake, and I do mean with my eyes as big as saucers, I discovered my wife sound asleep beside me, where she’s supposed to be. I listened, but couldn’t hear anything . The next thing I noticed was that the cats weren’t freaking out–as they most certainly would, believe me, if anyone were here. The cats being calm proved it was a dream.
Don’t you hate those dreams that start with you in bed, in your bedroom? Somehow that never seems to usher in a dream about anything pleasant…
I read this morning in her autobiography that Agatha Christie once wrote a novel in three days. Of course, she said, it was a short novel, only (!) 50,000 words. My books are longer. If i wrote at that rate of speed, I would need four or five days to finish a book.
How in tarnation does anybody do that? I’m sure I wouldn’t even want to do it: working so intensely, suddenly being done with it has got to be a tremendous spiritual letdown. Besides, once I’m really into a new book that I’m writing, the work becomes a pleasure.
Note: these two cases above, seemingly unrelated, I’m sure have something to teach about the workings of the human mind. But what?