Friday, March 4

dreams of fantasies, fantasies of dreaming

I had a dream the other night. I was in a sword fight and, frankly holding my own, dammit. Everything was in slow motion, and color, and I remember thinking, “I’m dreaming!” and being excited about it because I just don’t seem to ever remember my dreams, and I certainly never seem cognizant of dreaming while doing it.

Or maybe I do, but I just don’t remember about it afterwards.

Anyway, I woke up in the morning and realized that I both remembered the dream and had, at some point, grabbed a katana I have in a stand on my headboard (it’s not THAT weird, really – I’ve studied kenjutsu, so I had a reason to buy it in the first place) and it was lying on the bed spread next to me.

So I guess we’re kind of officially seeing each other now. I wonder if I have to change my FB relationship status? Does “It’s complicated” really cover it?

I put this all in context though: I’m deep into semi-final revisions on Hand of God, my fantasy manuscript, in the last weeks before I send it off to my beta readers. Yes, beta readers. I have some. They’re cool people that I have either known for years or will one day meet outside of Twitter and Facebook and e-mail.

I’m a bit afraid of them too though. I mean, I’ve obviously chosen people I trust deeply, and whose opinion I clearly value, but what if the manuscript doesn’t live up to my self-believing hype? That would be embarrassing as hell. What if they don’t get the Dr. Seuss rhyming scheme or the stick-figure illustrations? What if the themes of alienation and self-realization aren’t clear in between the epic fight scenes and the pages-long descriptions of imaginary landscapes. What if the made up names for places and things based on Jellie Bellie flavors just don’t fly?

My head’s spinning with the permutations of rejection. And I haven’t even finished my query letter yet. I realistically recognize that it may take up to three agent queries to find “the one” for me. How will I handle the rejection from the first two?

Taken in this light, sleeping with a sword suddenly seems infinitely reasonable.

I’m going back to bed. Come’ere, lover.