My dream last night was particularly disturbing.
A man with a half covered face and a robotic expression cornered me against the bathroom wall. He fired one shot that hit my hand and I screamed. "Why did you do that? I'm a writer. How will I write?" Without any delay he turned around and fired again. This time at my throat. I could actually feel myself drowning in the dream.
Maura woke up and asked if someone had criticized my writing any time during the day.
And then all the way to work I spent thinking about what it all could mean.
It seems each shot was fired to cut off communication in one form or another.
Maybe I'm feeling pent up. Or unheard. Or unable to express.
Maybe I'm just not putting enough into my communications.
Hours later I realize -