The Lost Book

The other night I had a strange, vivid dream. I dreamed that I had a book - a novel - that I'd written at some point in the past, but never published. Somehow, I'd managed to forget the book existed.

In the dream, something triggered a recollection of the lost book's existence. I was thrilled at the notion that I could dig it out and get it published, to help satisfy readers frustrated by the slow pace of my output.

I half woke at that point and found myself asking: did this lost book really exist? I racked my sleep-clogged brain. I knew the genre, a paranormal ménage. The title? Couldn't recall. But the whole thing felt so real, I almost made myself get out of bed and go searching on my hard drive.

This isn't an impossible scenario. Every now and again I discover a short story from years ago that I'd totally forgotten. But an entire novel? Not likely I guess, even though I've published - what, seven novels? Eight? Kind of depends how you count, but I have rather lost track.

One thing this dream showed me. I feel really frustrated and embarrassed by my low productivity. One or two major releases a year seems to be all that I can manage. My joy at discovering a "free" book that I could put out there suggests that my feelings of inadequacy are even invading my dreams.

Got to get working on that next story...