I had a dream…

Actually I had a dream last Tuesday night, and it was an odd one.

Many months ago, Roger Morris asked writers if they ever had “writing” dreams. Prior to Tuesday, I had just the one - a pre book-launch dream that was no different to any other dream of “failure from the start”, like an actor taking to the stage on the opening night only to discover they’ve forgotten to put some clothes on, or the athlete attending their first race to discover the race was run yesterday and the stadium is empty.
In my case, I dreamt my book-launch had arrived without any books – there was nothing to read, nothing to sign, and people were suspecting I hadn’t been published at all. Yeah, that was a little odd.

But the one on Tuesday night was more so.

And worse still, the dream started at Work. (I always feel cheated when I dream about the day-job. It’s like I’ve already done six hours of work in my sleep, so why do I have to do another seven and a half when I’m awake?)

Anyway, the dream went like this:

I arrive at work. I’m late. This is odd, because usually I’m quite early. Everyone is already in the office when the lift comes to a halt on the third floor and I walk into the open-plan space of desks scrunched up together, the heavy hum of the air-conditioning overhead. So apart from being late, everything else seems normal. For a moment.
And then I notice my colleagues. They are all happy. I mean all of them. And they’re drifting around, dazed and happy, clutching books to their chests. It crosses my mind that a book-club has been around that morning, off-loading novels for a couple of quid each. One of the staff (for the sake of anonymity I’ll call him “Bill Jones”) accosts me with an inane grin and shoves the book hard into my ribs with glee. I look down expecting a Bernard Cornwell novel, but discover it’s not. The author’s name is Bill Jones. And the cover looks like some Andy McNab-style thriller.
“I’m published!” he says with laughter.
“Bloody hell, you are,” I reply with genuine pleasure. “You never told me you wrote books, Bill.”
“I don’t,” Bill says dreamily, taking the book from me. He runs his hands over the cover like it’s the most precious thing in the world. “This is my first one.”
I watch Bill wander away, feeling a little bewildered which turns to bemusement as I remember everyone else is clutching a book. I immediately think I’ve missed Bill’s book-launch or something, so I accost Janet (again, a made up name…).
“Hey, Janet, I see you’ve got one of Bill’s books too,” I say.
Janet looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Bill’s? No. This is mine.” She places her book in my hands, and bugger me if it doesn’t have Janet’s full name on it and some strange ‘Love and Horses’ title plastered in a racy-red across the front.
“You’re published too?” I ask, my voice faltering.
“Isn’t it wild?” she replies, walking away.
I notice Derek and Ian chatting in the corner. They too are clutching books. Books they’ve written. Books that are published. One’s a historical novel, the other a Sci-Fi. One is published by HarperCollins, one by Orbit.
Jeremy bumps into me. “Sorry, Matt…” He pauses and then brings out his book, some non-fiction tome about growing potatoes the “organic way”.
I back away from him. “For fucksake, Jeremy, is there anyone in this office who isn’t published?” I ask, and my voice rises loudly at just the moment everyone else’s falls to a whisper. And they’re all staring at me. Staring at me while holding their books. Books they’ve written. Books that are published. And I might as well be standing on stage without any clothes on…

The dream then moved on as dreams do, to something equally obscure and irrelevant, but for a time there was something genuinely unnerving about coming to work to discover everyone else was published.
Now I’ve since asked a few people what this could all mean, and the interpretation that gets me thinking the most is the one where “just being published is not enough for me; I want more.”

I admit, I’m ambitious, but I’m pragmatic too and have never believed I would be a bestseller writer. I’d like to be, I can’t think of a writer who wouldn’t, but never arrogantly assumed I would. I was content to be just published, and that being published is fun. But the dream tugs at something deeper. Maybe on some level I believe being a published writer makes me stand out from the crowd – I admit there is a little welcomed attention - but to quote The Incredibles, “when everyone is Super, then no one is.”
Perhaps it’s not enough just to be published anymore, and maybe my ambition is driving me forward. My writing has certainly become more significant in my life – after sacrificing hours in the day-job, a decent foreign rights sale and schedule of planned novels I would be pretty imprudent if I didn’t treat it as more of a hobby and make the most of it. I've come quite far now, and I would feel utterly ungrateful if I didn't give this whole venture my best shot. There are others behind me who would kill for this opportunity, or chop off an arm, or sell their Grandma.

I read somewhere that writing is very much about momentum. Take too long and you falter, losing the ground you’ve made up. It could be this dream is telling me to get on with it. And I have. On Monday I started the 2nd draft of The Black Hours which should take me till Christmas to complete.
How’s that for ‘getting on with it’, eh, my annoying subconscious-self? Now please, leave my dreams alone. I get the message.