The Shape of a Life.

Thursday 4th of April 2019

I heard somewhere that when you can’t go a day without thinking about something, then you’ve already found what’s important to you. I don’t think I’ve gone a day since I was eleven without thinking about being an author. Even seeing the word written, it looks so beautiful. The letters look warm and whole, soft and comforting, like a fireplace in a small cabin, surrounded by warm wood, soft, plush rugs, the crackling of the firewood breaking apart in the heat.

Now I’m dreaming about writing. I had a typewriter, the blue one I was given as a Christmas present when I was maybe ten. My mum saved up to get it for me, and I loved it until the day the ribbon ran dry. I’m sure I never wrote anything good back then, nothing has survived, but it didn’t matter, I knew who I was and who I was going to be.

But back to the dream. I had typed the title at the top of the page. ‘The Shape of a Life’.

The problem: This is the book I’ve been struggling to write for three years, I should say five, but the first two years of writing it I was happy with it, then I let someone read it, a professional editor. Never let someone read your first draft, big mistake. I’ve been stuck since. Anyway, so, what does the dream mean? It’s so hard to convey sarcasm in writing?

I also dreamt about a church. I knew it was a multi-faith church, the things we know in dreams, and the ceiling was obscured by grey and blue mist that made looking up like looking up into the sky. I was happy to be there, surrounded by people of different faiths, different backgrounds and different communities, all accepting and understanding each other. It felt like: “Yes, we have different names for god, we’ve developed different practices around that god, but it’s still god, we are all the same in that love for god.” I wish there was a place like that in real life.