Last night I dreamt that I was reading a manuscript of a novel, something a friend had written and given me. They wanted my feedback and reaction.
And, well, it was horrible. Everything about it was done wrong — characters that were two-dimensional, contrived dialogue and situations, uninspired plot — all wrapped up in flat, unappealing prose.
I woke up and got up for work. As I was shaving, I remembered my dream. I chuckled. I wondered why I would dream something so odd.
And then I felt very, very cold.