Where is your dream, nomad? Do you keep it under your fingernails, between your teeth, or behind your ear where you never wash? Is it rank? Is it rotten? Or does it smell fresh like a dewy meadow in old Lassy episodes? Do you put it over your T.V., on your shelf, or do you store it in your underwear, where no person, especially female, would dare search?
Do you keep it under the floorboard, in your attic, or have you gambled it away, along with the last bit of your sanity at the carnival on Sunday, right before you settled for a job and boss because you were too scared to wing it for the next fifty to sixty years?
The long dark winter came when I stopped working on my book. My dream slipped out of my pocket and was lost in the snow. I swam in a cold dark pool of my own self-loathing, and my fingers were so frozen I couldn’t type. They fell off that winter.
I went into a Japanese forest and fashioned fingers for myself out of bamboo. The typing comes along slow and clumsy. I apologize for not shaking your hand at the book signing. Someday, I’ll be able to make my index finger into a flute, where I’ll play a slow, sad melody about my winter of discontent.
Read more essays from the free digital book “Pure Writerly Moments” here: https://www.wattpad.com/504349120-pure-writerly-moments-the-best-of-goodreads-blog