Book Writing in My Dreams

He had been watching her for months.

But how much can you really know...when all you randomly see is the back of her ponytail bob as she runs by.

That's all she ever seems to do.  That and push kids in a stroller and trash down the hill to the curb and New York Times papers to the recycle bin.

And when she's not wearing sunglasses, her eyes are blue...extraordinarily so.  And she's beaming...not necessarily from her smile, but more so from her soul.  A soul that beams.  A rare deal.

The truth is that we'll never know each other, because a neighbor, or rather a guy that lives blocks away, that happens to frequent hers from time to time, can't be friends with a married woman who doesn't know he exists.

It's too weird and too suspicious...even if I'm widowed and just celebrated my 74th birthday. Just doesn't happen in today's day and age.  I'd probably be arrested or something.  But I wish it could be.  I think we could be friends.

This is the start to the book that I was writing in the dream I was dreaming last night.  Does that make any sense?  I've been struck with this desire to write a short story or the beginning chapters of a novel, but the sheer daunting task of it all overwhelms me and then, I end up paralyzed and with nothing to show for it.

That's the power of dreams.  The subconscious takes over and starts wittling away at the thoughts that no matter how hard we try to compartmentalize them, won't seem to go away.  And then writer's block is overcome and well, you just have to remember what the Sandman brought you to chew on.

Since the thoughts of inferiority don't seem to subside, I guess I'll have to just start writing and let go of the premise that no one cares or that it will never get published.  It doesn't matter, right.  It's just the process that counts.

Here's to more dreaming...I need to find out what happens next.