Wednesday the 80th of January – #9 Dream

Last night, I dreamt I'd published a book and gotten a tepid review by Jonathan Lethem (Or Franzen. One of those crabby Jonathans who writes books and reviews them too) in the NYT. On the eve of release of the paperback edition, I was sent a copy. On the cover, it said "A TOUR DE FORCE!" – Jonathan Lethem, The New York Times Book Review, which I didn't remember him having written at all.

Calvin and Hobbes from 2/5/1995 - Apparently Feb 5, '95 was a Sunday

Someone took some liberties there, beyond some of the questionable clipping publishers tend to do to increase sales. Sometimes you read a meh *shrug* review saying something like "She's the greatest American writer who has yet to write a great novel" by... let's just stick with Lethem*, and the book cover will say "'GREAT!' – Jonathan Lethem, author of Motherless Brooklyn". Also "Tour de force" is the kind of description a thriller, a potboiler, a true edge-of-your-seater gets. "Unputdownable." Apparently I wrote one of those. 

Except upon closer inspection, "A TOUR DE FORCE" has a typographical error. It says "A TOUR DE FRANCE" – Jonathan Lethem, etc. I'm furious and explain to the agent I know nothing about bicycles or France and anyway my book isn't about either. Started writing a strongly worded letter to... The publisher? Agent? Publicist? Lethem? Maybe all of them. Woke up before I found out. Woke up in a tizzy.

Dreams are just the mess of your day bouncing around, right? That upon waking you attach some sort of narrative significance? Detritus from the wreck of your stupid conscious mind's stupid conscious day from which you whittle your tiny bears and kittens and unicorns. Sometimes they appear to be telling you something, but you can glean the same information through horoscopes, tea leaves, I Ching toss, haruspicy. The interpretation, the telling of it, is where the meaning is. But sometimes your subconscious is exhorting you to some meaningful action, I think. In this case, I'm supposed to write angry letters to people in the publishing industry. Boy are they ever in for a surprise.

I hope a copy gets re-sent to retired NYT book critic Michiko Kakutani (whom Franzen hates and I believe it's mutual), like, subject line: "Michiko, check out this wackjob!" and she'll stick out her tongue and go googly-eyed, making her index do circles on her temple and exhaling that whistle sound that says What a nut amirite I can't even. Tack that baby right in the middle of her cork board with a blue ribbon that says "CRAZY OF THE WEEK" right next to all the other crank letters (three just from Franzen this month) and it'll stay up there for a whole financial quarter before she inters it into her really thick cuckoo folder and into the filing cabinet, which she then shoves out the window into the construction debris dumpster below.

Paperback copy of Lorrie Moore's first short story collection, Self-Help, 1985, which I recently reread. Maybe the oldest paperback purchase I still own, bought new in '87 or '88, and having survived  a dozen subsequent cullings before moves. Remember order forms in the back of books? $6.95 for a book? Outrageous. "Prices slightly higher in Canada" will always be funny to me. Suck it, Canada. The typo here is what probably inspired my dream. (Hint: it's the book by the Nobel Prize winning Canadian author)

SO.

What would you accomplish today if you followed your dreams like your hippy art teacher advised (which made you wonder if he had dreamed of becoming a hippy art teacher)? Bonus points for anyone beginning their comment with either "Franzen!**" or "Kakutani!" Whomever you despise more. Bonus bonus points if written in the style of the writers. JK! Franzen doesn't have a style lololololol 

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* Paraphrase of Lethem's very real review of Moore's I Am Homeless If This Is Not My Home in the NYT, IIRC. Referencing Moore's review of Updike a few decades ago. Or maybe I dreamt this part up too? I should be locked up for my own protection.

** True fact about Jonathan F. If you write his name 5X in one go, he'll appear in your kitchen and eat all your brie, steal all your chargers, and lick your flatscreen TV. Demand you call him an Uber and tap his toes and glancing at his pocket watch until the driver comes. Asshole.