So Good to See You, Will. You Haven't Aged A Day.
Two summers ago, I bought a chakra necklace from a witch who told me that when someone dead comes to us in a dream—it's the actual person, their presence, with a message. And we should listen. I had been having dreams about something I'll not discuss here . . . but also in the back of my mind in the witch's shop was my old, recurring Shakespeare dream.
Last night I had the Shakespeare dream for the first time in a long while. It's been eight years. I wrote about it in my beloved "Glass Half Full" column for Go Triad, and everything in the world has changed since it was published. He was trying to tell me something then—like, he honest-to-goodness told me to go get an MFA. And I did, because who is going to argue with Shakespeare? I was young then, and soft, and probably too comfortable—and now I'm 41, all angles, and my fight or flight reflex is hair-trigger.
I have no comfort zone. I'm in charge of everything and paying everything and keeping noodles on the table. I've fallen flat and cried a bunch, and found out sometimes stuff sucks. I've been writing to survive—journalism will, occasionally, pay bills. But my fiction has been locked up in a tower room. The five-year embargo on my thesis collection is up soon—taunting me while leaning against a lamp post on the corner, wearing a leather jacket and smoking.
I've been a punk.
Last night it was the same as it ever was. I've never been to London, but I know we are sitting on stage at the Globe. It is dark and it smells 16th century-ish. He is still the Chandos portrait and not Joseph Fiennes. His speech is Elizabethan but I won't do that here because eyeroll.
WS: "What have you written?"
JC: "Some things. My last story was published two years ago."
WS: "Too long. What about ***(undivulged title of story I've been sitting on for three years)**?"
JC: "It's not ready yet. I'm doing some things...."
WS: (interrupting and oddly handsome) "It is done after you add heat to the beginning, and blood."
I wanted to stay and him to stay but it was like fog and I couldn't hear and my tongue was heavy and like that, the dream ended. I carried Floyd downstairs, made breakfast for kids, and now here I am.
Now to add heat to the beginning. And blood.
Last night I had the Shakespeare dream for the first time in a long while. It's been eight years. I wrote about it in my beloved "Glass Half Full" column for Go Triad, and everything in the world has changed since it was published. He was trying to tell me something then—like, he honest-to-goodness told me to go get an MFA. And I did, because who is going to argue with Shakespeare? I was young then, and soft, and probably too comfortable—and now I'm 41, all angles, and my fight or flight reflex is hair-trigger.
I have no comfort zone. I'm in charge of everything and paying everything and keeping noodles on the table. I've fallen flat and cried a bunch, and found out sometimes stuff sucks. I've been writing to survive—journalism will, occasionally, pay bills. But my fiction has been locked up in a tower room. The five-year embargo on my thesis collection is up soon—taunting me while leaning against a lamp post on the corner, wearing a leather jacket and smoking.
I've been a punk.
Last night it was the same as it ever was. I've never been to London, but I know we are sitting on stage at the Globe. It is dark and it smells 16th century-ish. He is still the Chandos portrait and not Joseph Fiennes. His speech is Elizabethan but I won't do that here because eyeroll.
WS: "What have you written?"
JC: "Some things. My last story was published two years ago."
WS: "Too long. What about ***(undivulged title of story I've been sitting on for three years)**?"
JC: "It's not ready yet. I'm doing some things...."
WS: (interrupting and oddly handsome) "It is done after you add heat to the beginning, and blood."
I wanted to stay and him to stay but it was like fog and I couldn't hear and my tongue was heavy and like that, the dream ended. I carried Floyd downstairs, made breakfast for kids, and now here I am.
Now to add heat to the beginning. And blood.
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