(no subject)

Oh, terrible dream.

I was going through a stack of mail (which included things like loose newspaper clippings, and for some reason that made sense) when I came across a purple, 9x11 enevelope. In it was a rejection from an agent I had queried. It was a long, involved letter telling me that the story was stupid, not to mention slow and dull, clearly I was someone who knew nothing about stories or writing except what I'd learned watching a few old Indiana Jones movies (I swear, that's what the letter said), that I'd tried to show off by quoting classics when I didn't even have basic skills, and I would never be published ever. My manuscript was also in the envelope--it was typed in 8pt Times New Roman, single spaced, on dark blue construction paper. I read the first few sentences and thought, "She's right, this stinks. I suck. Why am I bothering to write? I should give up." I woke up with tears in my eyes--but realized pretty quickly that the sentences I'd just read were not, in fact, the first sentences of Isendeni Station, that all my queries have gone out with number ten SASEs, that even if I'd sent out three chapters and a big enough envelope to return them I'd never send a purple SASE, and I've certainly never printed any ms out on dark blue construction paper, let alone in 8pt tnr, single spaced.

Still, it took me a few minutes to regain my balance, the way it does when a dream is especially vivid, when even though you know it's not a real memory it sticks to you for awhile and insists that it really did happen that way. A cup of coffee and regular daytime errands should clear it out completely.

(no subject)

Oh, terrible dream.

I was going through a stack of mail (which included things like loose newspaper clippings, and for some reason that made sense) when I came across a purple, 9x11 enevelope. In it was a rejection from an agent I had queried. It was a long, involved letter telling me that the story was stupid, not to mention slow and dull, clearly I was someone who knew nothing about stories or writing except what I'd learned watching a few old Indiana Jones movies (I swear, that's what the letter said), that I'd tried to show off by quoting classics when I didn't even have basic skills, and I would never be published ever. My manuscript was also in the envelope--it was typed in 8pt Times New Roman, single spaced, on dark blue construction paper. I read the first few sentences and thought, "She's right, this stinks. I suck. Why am I bothering to write? I should give up." I woke up with tears in my eyes--but realized pretty quickly that the sentences I'd just read were not, in fact, the first sentences of Isendeni Station, that all my queries have gone out with number ten SASEs, that even if I'd sent out three chapters and a big enough envelope to return them I'd never send a purple SASE, and I've certainly never printed any ms out on dark blue construction paper, let alone in 8pt tnr, single spaced.

Still, it took me a few minutes to regain my balance, the way it does when a dream is especially vivid, when even though you know it's not a real memory it sticks to you for awhile and insists that it really did happen that way. A cup of coffee and regular daytime errands should clear it out completely.