I had the weirdest dream last night.
In my dream, I was messing around on the web. And I came across a site:
The Best and Worst Books You’ve Never Heard Of.
So I’m reading away. And the books listed under best books were things like: War and Peace, The Brothers Karamazov, The Great Gatsby, 50 Shades of Gray. And I’m thinking, “What kind of ding-dong wrote this list? Everyone’s heard of these books!” And, for the last one, “Dude, really?” Because one of those things is not like the other. One of those things just doesn’t belong. (No, seriously, no slight, but really? I’m not a huge fan of erotica, but I like it well enough. I just don’t see myself studying it in college. Awkward!)
So then I get to a list entitled, Worst Books of the Century.
First on that list. Yeah, look to your right. Mmhm. It was The Marker, followed by Manos, Hands of Fate, which I think is only a movie. There were some others there I don’t remember.
In my dream, my thoughts followed a progression that I am sure, in some way, mirrors the stages of grief.
“Whoever wrote that list is a total dick!”
And then, “Hey, someone other than my friends read my book! And cared enough to make a list! Hating it is caring, right?”
Then: “My friends are the dicks who cared enough to put my book on the list!”
And, at last, acceptance: “Either way, someone read it!”
So, thank you, Doubt Monster. You make other people fix their works and make them better. Me, you give weird, totally unhelpful dreams that scream, “This person has issues with self-esteem!” (I sure do, but I have very little shame, so I guess I’ll post about it. Somewhere, some psychology doctoral student is just wishing he had someone like me to study. And Freud, bless his little lifeless heart, would have a field day with me)