Daydream

I had a repetitive, one might even say redundant, daydream when I was at LSU:

A nondescript brown box would arrive at my door, addressed to me. I’d tear open the top and see three or four orderly stacks of copies of a fresh, new paperback book inside. I never thought about what the cover looked like or even what it was about, whether it was a novel or a short story collection, an anthology of poems or historical nonfiction; I only saw my name on the cover. In the daydream, I could feel that sense of pride that I had actually seen something like this through to the end.

Granted, I had absolutely no drive, ambition, or clue how I would ever get to that point (hence the blank cover) but it was a fun little daydream regardless.

Many years later, a nondescript brown box arrived, addressed to me. I tore open the top and saw two orderly stacks of a fresh, new publication inside; I felt a mild sense of accomplishment, because yeah, I had written most of it, but my name was not on the cover. Instead, the following title was printed in slender, professional font:

New Customer Welcome Guide

Uh, Universe? This is not at all what I meant. I mean yeah, the mechanics of the daydream are all here, the box, the tearing open, even my writing, but a milquetoast technical marketing document in magazine format for which I was paid nothing extra and received zero actual credit for writing? Come on! Help me out, here.  

It reminded me another daydream, one many of us share, about winning the Powerball, and how the Universe once rewarded me with a $3 winning Powerball ticket. You asked for a win, and you got one. What are you complaining about? Those winnings allowed you to put a substantial down payment on a pack of cigarettes. Beggars can’t be choosers.

It occurred to me that perhaps I needed to be more specific about my daydreams.

Many years after my prestigious New Customer Welcome Guide was published, a nondescript brown package arrived at my door. I worked from home on that snowy February Wednesday under the guise of not wanting to commute in hazardous weather but with the true intent of being present when that little brown package was haphazardly tossed onto my front porch, sliding across a thin veneer of powdery snow and landing just at the edge of the door mat.

I knew what it was when I saw it. I picked it up, brought it in, and tossed it on the counter. I walked around the kitchen island two or three times, then leaned down and scratched my dog behind the ear.

Open the damned thing.

I tore along the dotted line on the side of the package and pulled out fifteen months of daily effort, setting it gingerly on the kitchen counter. It was thick, heavy, substantial. Yep, that’s my name on it. Right there on the top of the cover, cover version #4, I think. I stepped back. I can only describe it as unexpectedly happening upon a still, coiled snake to the side of a hiking trail. Was it alive? Was it going to strike? Keeping my distance, I wanted to poke it with a stick to see if it would move.

After some time, standing there in the shadowy silence of the kitchen, I picked it up and opened it to a random page. Holy Shit. I wrote that. At least I think I did. Some version of me did, but it sure doesn’t feel like the version standing here gaping at it. I checked another page, and another. Yep, those appear to be my words. This thing is full of them. How did this happen? No going back now. It’s in print, right there on that off-white page, like a real book. It is a real book. Your name is on it. You’re responsible for it. Any misgivings or apprehensions about anything you wrote in there? Too late.

Now it’s its own thing, its own entity. Anybody who happens to want one will be able to get one. I envisioned a dog-eared copy at the bottom of a donation pile in the back room of the Cedar Falls Public Library, or at a sun-bleached garage sale in Albuquerque under a handwritten sign: “25 cents or 5 for $1.”

Eventually, I put this particular not-yet-discarded copy under my arm and returned to my computer to finish out the day’s work. Every once in a while, I opened it, again to a random page, trying to catch it, to see if it was tricking me. But every page I opened showed more of the stuff I wrote. Dizziness, anxiety, and exhilaration existed in equal measures, but most of all, there was astonishment.

I don’t know if it’s going to fly. I have very little control over whether or not the themes, symbolism, or litany of memories I’ve described and organized in there are going to be engaging enough to hold anybody’s attention. I don’t know if it’s going to help anybody deal with grief and identity and awkward homecomings the way writing it did for me. That’s out of my hands now.

Does this happen to other writers? Am I insane? Is there a support group for this sort of thing?

***

I met a writer last summer at Overland Expo, Sam Manicom, an Englishman who has ridden his vintage motorcycle around six continents and has written several excellent books about his travels. I met Sam at just the right time. I had completed my first revision and was vetting editors and publishers. I was excited but feeling more than a little unsure of things.  

I don’t know if I’ve ever met a happier person. Not happy in the giggles and unicorns sense; Sam was content. The man was off-gassing contentment. He loved his life, infectiously. I could have sworn he was levitating three inches off the ground the whole time we spoke and I could feel his positivity warming me. I told him I had just finished writing a book. He shook my hand profusely and congratulated me with that genuine, enveloping warmth of his.

He then offered several pieces of crucial advice, none more valuable than this:

“You should be able to walk into a roomful of strangers and proudly defend every single word you’ve written. You must believe in it, completely, more than anybody else in the world.”

After our conversation, I purchased one of his books. He signed it,

“To a Fellow Writer—All the Best, Sam.”

“A Fellow Writer.” That was a first. I hadn’t anticipated how cool that would feel, nor how badly I had needed to hear it.

I’ve taken his advice as gospel. Who’s going to believe in it, if not me?  I’m ready to defend it to a roomful of strangers. I’m sticking by this thing, no matter what. I can’t wait to let it loose and see what happens.

And I know that after a few more details are ironed out next week, I’ll place an order. Three or four days later, a delivery will arrive:

A nondescript brown box, addressed to me…