For the past two nights, I have dreamed of The Book That Will Kill Me. This is strange because I haven’t worked on it for several months now — it’s in the hands of my editor, and given the sheer length and density of it, I don’t expect to hear anything soon.
But dream of it I have, twice now, and this from a guy who rarely repeats his dreams.
The first night, I dreamed that the book had been published. And it was beautiful. But as I flipped through my copy, I realized that the publisher had decided at some point to, well, embellish the book. There were lavishly illustrated sections that had nothing to do with my story. Portions of the book were now, for some reason, written in French. And the structure of the book had changed completely. I was baffled and a little upset because — in the dream — I feared that “their” version was better than the original!
Last night, I once again dreamed that the book was published. It had a beautiful cover and it was hefty as hell. A nice chunk of words, you know? When I opened it, I discovered — much to my shock — several comic book pages in addition to my prose. But they seemed to fit, so it was okay. But then I realized that the title was misspelled. On the cover.
I have no idea if these are bad omens or what. I started writing The Book That Will Kill Me in 2009, and at this point, the earliest it will get published is 2016. That’s a long time to wait. Maybe the anxiety is just getting to me. I dunno.