I dreamt someone made me a book of One Stone. I’d pushed through to the end, I’d finished the manuscript, and they’d taken it away and made it into a book, a proper book, printed and bound with one of those cloth covers that all the serious books had as a kid, and given it back to me.
I’d leafed through it with a bookmark in hand, showing myself when important events happened. The first half of the book was just introduction, just awful dreary details of a city and major characters weren’t introduced. The second half of the book had upside down pages, missing text. From time to the time the text was broken up away from the style of narration I thought I’d been using and replaced with first-person narration that was in some cases my writing about my thoughts.
Simply put, I dreamt that I held something I worked hard on in my hands and it was fucking awful.