Ever have one of those dreams where you want to cry with frustration when you inevitably wake up? I had one of those last year. It was so clear, so incredibly vibrant, and it played itself out like a movie in my mind. I woke at the climax and when I forced myself back to sleep, I kept re-dreaming (is that a word?) the same final scene over and over. When I awoke, I couldn’t stop thinking about the characters. (Of course in the dream, I was the main chica, but she was way cooler than me.) I mean, this girl was a butt kicker from way back and all I could think about the next day was just how much I wanted to see how the story ended. Or maybe not ended—because I’m pretty sure this dream was the colossal end to some epic space opera. I wanted to know how this story began and what happened—in short, I just really really wanted to read this story.
Later that night, after the kids went down for the count, I wrote a scene. An opening scene to be exact. I fantasized about this story and it took on a life of its own. There was a prophecy, a chosen one (though for some reason, my girl is NOT the chosen one.) A boy. Another boy. An entirely new star system. A special forces unit made up entirely of FEMALES (this one gives me chills.)
And then I put it away for almost a year.
I pulled that story out last night. I dusted it off, polished it a bit, and then with baited breath, I asked my husband to read it.
And he doesn’t read.
(Yes, of course he can read—he just doesn’t)
He loved it. (No, he really did. I can tell when he’s lying, which incidentally scares the crap out of him.) And he said these words, “This is awesome. You should finish this book.”
I may write like garbage. I may never write another word of this story. But those words, sincerely felt, just blew a gust of wind into these sails.