I don’t ever write.  I loathe it, hate it, terrified of it. But last night I had the strangest dream–the most fascinating, strangest dream, and now I think I’ve found my calling–I think I’ve been called to write.

I was sleeping of course, and waking on and off, but this same dream kept returning each time I fell asleep, like a TV program I kept coming back into the room for. In this dream I am writing, and writing very well–the words and the themes of my story are pouring forth without hesitation, and they are fantastic–gold winning stuff! My voice is there on the page! But the strangest part of all–the part which has lingered inside me all day, and forced me to create this–in the dream I can see the words of my thoughts in my fingers! The words I am thinking are appearing not vaguely in the scary shadows of my mind–where I’ve always been so unconfident as to how to find them–but they are appearing fully written, in a kind of dark grey ink, in the tips of my fingers, and like coffee beans from a dispenser they are dispensing their way so smoothly onto the page through the pen in my hand.