I dreamed I was the reason that my mom died - and Chloe. (For new readers, Chloe's the dog I gave my mom for Christmas when I was 19 that now lives with me because my mom was murdered 5-1/2 years ago. She is my heart and skin and bones, and I spoil her rotten and she's wonderful and sweet and everyone loves her, including the entire jury at my mom's murder trial, who, after the verdict was read, swarmed me in the hallway to ask "Where's Chloe? Is she okay?")
I don't recall how I killed my mother, but I'd killed Chloe by leaving her outside with no water. (I killed a guinea pig this way when I was 12.) Now they were angry zombies, à la Pet Semetary, and they were threatening my brother, my husband, and I. We were living in my grandmother's house. I had to lock up my mother in a shed across the street, and I knew she would have to be destroyed, and that I would have to do it.
I confessed to my little brother that her death was my fault, and that she was locked up and needed to be blown up with some C-4. I don't remember what happened to Chloe.
In fact, if I don't remember any other details of the dream, I bet I will take this feeling with me to my grave: of saying "I have to tell you something..."
And then the feeling, when the shed exploded, that I had lost her all over again.
: Your dream's drivel and no one wants to read it!Me: Shut up bad-child-actor critic in my head!
: Also, someone's just published a memoir about their mother's death, and the market's flooded. You're wasting your time. Get a real job. That's what this dream was about.Me: Her mother died of cancer, and mine was murdered. Also, I found her body. A lot of other stuff happened that I need to tell people about - and in my voice, too. There won't be anything else like it.
: People don't want to read something tragic and uncomfortable in this day and age. Write that book you've been thinking about instead - the one about the pony running for mayor.Me: Et tu, Undead Cat? Et tu?
: Besides, you don't even know how much of the book is finished and what order it's all going in.Me: I was hoping the right editor would help me. You know, like Maxwell Perkins. Someone who believes in what I'm trying to do and helps me assemble it.
: Those don't exist anymore! Editors don't want to see it until it's already totally marketable and ready to hand directly to Oprah.Me: Oprah would love my book, Pennywise! She's exactly the person who would love it.
: No she won't! It's too esoteric and arty. You try to seduce your mother's mortician. It's gonna be dead in the water! Hahahahahahahaaaa! Just like you, fat boy!Me: I'm not fat...or a boy. Stupid clown. You'll see. I'll finish it. And I will find peace. And I will write that novel about the pony running for mayor. (Spoiler alert: he trends high in the Gallop Polls. Ba dump bump.)
