You mull over the notes — you’ve been jotting them down for years. You fly through troves of PDFs in the interest of research. You’ve got characters, more or less, and themes, more so. Enough ideas to cut to fill a trilogy.
Dreams are dangerous things. There comes a time when the research leaves you more confused than before, when you can no longer remember how your ideas evolved a certain way and what the whole thing is about and you cannot but admit you’re lost. More pressingly, you’re afraid: the book wants to come out to the light but you don’t. Yet you’re anxious and restless and live on the periphery of moments. You feed on the dream like methadone, and you’re not getting any younger.
Gardener or architect, gung-ho upon the empty page or cooped up in an Airbnb plotting, you need to get somewhere. ‘Cause one thing’s for sure: the dream isn’t going anywhere without you.
the Budafoki amended 