(cont.) That entire year, I would wake up in the middle of the night deep in a dream about the book, still way into the setting of the novel. I’d brain-dump the most insane ideas to a legal pad next to the bed and hope I could read my own handwriting the next morning. Now, nothing. Maybe I needed to write down my dreams, publish them in a journal, but who would read a book of dreams? I had enough stories about gout and 7-Eleven to almost make a novel out of that, if I could unfuck the plot line enough. I got about a page into that last month and gave up.
How could I reproduce this? What is next? What is even real anymore?
How could I reproduce this? What is next? What is even real anymore?