Just before waking this morning I had a very strange dream, involving door-to-door salesmen who wanted to rob us. They were arrested by a bike patrol police officer (complete with regulation yellow polo shirt) then we all ended up on a commercial jet plane: me, My Hero, Small Boy, the cop, the robbers, and two of our friends who were piloting the plane.

But the plane wouldn’t stay in the air. We kept having to touch down in big fields or on highways cleared for us. I was very tense (I could feel my body, my hands and arms, tensed in real life), sitting in my seat, watching the pilot and thinking of all the things he should be doing to get the plane in the air. I finally got my kid off the plane and started marching away.

I’m not sure what this means. I think it has something to do with being in the very early stages of a new book, one that’s really going to stretch me. Getting it “off the ground” is like getting a big plane off the ground…struggling for lift, for that flow of air over and under the wings that makes it possible to defy gravity. Which is really what writing’s all about. Writers defy gravity, in so many ways.

But the  walking away…that’s different. That’s me giving up on expecting someone else to get my plane in the air, and maybe giving up on their idea of “plane” as well. Maybe all I can do is run through a field, my arms outstretched, making plane noises. But that’s my own power…a smaller plane, soaring only in my own imagination, under my own power.

Time to work.

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