What Dreams May Come

It’s been a harrowing experience, trying to live a dream. It all started with an unusual love of books. Perpetual anger toward my parents caused passive aggressive tendencies that prevented me from actually opening them. I expressed anger by reaching dizzying heights of ignorance, just to hurt then as much as they hurt me.

But I couldn’t fight the allure. I perused the book section of Caldoor, looking for that one that sent shivers up my spine. It was usually a heavy bound, thick papered, science fiction novel, something that would jive with my love of the genre. I was already a fan of Space 1999, Star Blazers, and DC Comics. But I never read a word of it. I just fell into that catatonic state in front of the TV while Mom shook her head at my grades, on the phone with Dad who, from his house an hour away, shook his too.

I have an old copy of a book I tried to write when I was ten. It reminds me that from a very early age I was enamored with books. Saturday I came as close as ever to the fire, the dream that burns if I get too close but fails to warm me when I stand too far away. For the past three years I’ve tried to put on paper what everyone says is a fascinating life. On Thursday of last week I finished my third attempt, the one with a voice, a cadence, a common thread. So I paid the fee to attend The Muse and the Marketplace, a two day writer’s conference held at the Omni Parker House in Boston. I went the extra mile and paid extra to have the first twenty pages of my memoir read by the agent of my choice.

At 4:10 the room cleared of the previous twenty minute appointments. Hopeful authors scampered off, excited or devastated; agents tend not to beat around the bush. I walked to my table, hoping to see a contract spread out, no words necessary. But instead I found a friendly faced man, the one I chose, sitting patiently. I sat down and introduced myself.

“Let me ask you, what are you doing now?” he asked in response to the twenty pages that chronicle my first day in prison.

“I’m a personal trainer at Boston Sports Club.” I answered, wondering if he was expecting to hear, ‘Robbing jewelry stores, didn’t you read?’

He looked impressed, then pulled out my manuscript and said, “Well, I read this and you’re a really good writer. Your descriptions are right on, not too detailed, just enough to put me there.”

I’d like to say I breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. But his compliment set off a frenzy of anxiety. He was supposed to tell me it needed a lot of work. He was supposed to tell me his agency wasn’t taking on new clients at this time. He was supposed to take out a tube of lighter fluid, saturate the pages, and set them ablaze.

Instead, I heard, “Feel free to send this to the agency.”

Last night I sent it. Now I wait for a rejection or worse, a positive response. I might have to revert to my old ways, lest my head explode. I’m not used to praise.

Ignorance truly is bliss.