I handed in an article, yesterday. I’m not going to get into the specifics, but I’m happy with it, and happy to be handing it over. There’s not a lot that can go wrong with it, at this point. Not from a rational point of view.

That doesn’t change the fact that I got revision notes in my dreams last night.

They were written in green marker, and scribbled across a hard-copy version of my article that never existed. They were incredibly well organized, and by all appearances, detailed, but the were written in the very same characters used on the spaceship from Roswell. Obviously, all my little grey friends are… uhm… out of town. So, a discrete translation is out of the question.

Yup. My subconscious is afraid that my article is going to be rejected and/or mocked because I don’t speak a rare intergalactic dialect, and can’t get an immediate translation.

I’ve had event-specific nightmares like that in basically every phase of my life.

You know the one where you check your finals schedule, and realize you’ve forgotten an entire class for a semester?

I invented that.

So, it’s not exactly a surprise to have writing-flavored dreams, now.

I went to a party. All my characters were there. But none of them could see me, because star ship pilots and alien princesses don’t believe in writers.