My nonfiction professor has a recurring dream in which she mistakenly picks up Alice Munro's drycleaning and, out of fear that Alice Munro will hate her, doesn't return it.

How perfect. How absolutely fucking perfect for a writer. I wish that it was my dream. But no. Last night I dreamed that Dana Wood and I were eating pretzel-covered marshmallows while standing outside of a cheese hut. Not exactly a metaphoric, writerly dream. (I wonder what Freud would say about it?) My professor's dream, on the other hand? It seems like the stuff of stories, not of real life...but that's Allyson for you. She's a living work of fiction in a lot of ways. The woman was a lounge singer, for crying out loud. Real people are not lounge singers, are they? (A Jewish lounge singers, no less...)

Allyson is the model writer in every way. She's from L.A. She's a creative writing professor. She can write. She's been published in multiple genres. She's working on a novel and her short story collection is in the process of being published. She has subscriptions to both Harpers and The New Yorker. She's married to a semi-famous poet. She dreams about Alice Munro. Repeatedly.

And what do I do? I write shitty fiction and almost passable nonfiction. I avoid poetry, poetry readings, and all things poetic just as I would avoid the plague. I'm scared of writers because they intimidate me. I am not a writer...not yet. I'm waiting for the transformation, hoping that it'll come sooner than later...

 

P.S.: Jolene, love is overrated and you know it. You've probably just got that whole spring-love-complex. Everyone is getting married, everyone is walking around outside holding hands, the animal kingdom is getting it on in full swing... I think that every single person in the entire world feels like shit this time of year. Just remember: What is Jolene's favorite display item at the Museum? (Think of the Museum Book - now online! - if you don't remember, though I'm sure you do.)