Last night, I had a dream of a lush storyscape. Full of characters and beautiful scenery. There were accents and glorious tension. There was physical attraction, and oh the dialogue: natural and unique, the likes of a Hollywood-Dickensian lovechild.
I rose from my bed, grabbing an old book. A library book, bought at a used book fair. I opened to the pages and started to write in the margins, over the words themselves. It felt dirty. It felt so wrong, but I was so happy. Happy that these wonderful characters and their wonderful-er world hadn’t slipped from my nocturnal fingers.
And as I watched the ink bleed through each aged page…as I studied it, relieved that I had it all down…
That, dear reader, is when I actually woke up.
I woke up, realizing that not only had I not, in fact, captured this tale from my slumber but…
It was just a Harry Potter knock-off.