The Mother of all Nightmares

I wonder if there is an old folk’s home for authors like the one in Hollywood for retired actors. The only reason I am asking is because I had a nightmare last night and dreamt I was 101 years old peddling books like pencils on a street corner. I was wearing rags and my shoes were faded flip flops. I was still trying to sell my first orders of Evil in the Mirror and Day Stalker. I don’t know what happened to my third book, The Phoenix Code, which would have finished the trilogy. Guess I never got around to writing it.

My evil twin brother, Walt, rode by in the back of a big beautiful limousine and had his driver stop just long enough to buy a book. As they left, Walt waved goodbye with a wicked grin on his face. I do regret making him a famous villain in my books while I stand here in obscurity. You would think he would take me in, but I guess he is too busy being the world’s oldest movie star.

My wife left me for a younger man who was a successful author and had best sellers running out his ears. I guess I don’t blame her too much; after all, this street corner is no place for a woman. Besides, if I am ever going to be a bestselling author, I need to travel light and be able to sell on multiple corners. I do have a strategy; it has just taken a little longer than I figured to sell that first million books.

As I awoke this morning, it took a few moments to realize that it had all been just a bad dream. Walt was still more obscure than I, and my wife was sleeping next to me with the dogs cuddled nearby. I had clean PJs on and instead of flip flops, my warm slippers begged to be put on. I jumped out of bed and rushed to the computer with renewed vigor to finish The Phoenix Code, and sell more books lest the dream become a self-fulfilling prophesy. The moral of the story? Never, ever give up!

Write on,

Mittster