The Truth in Dreams

The room is crowded with nervous people and hard plastic chairs.  Everyone waits for my confession. 

I stand, force a smile to my face and wave awkwardly.  “Hi, I’m Becky.”

The group responds,  “Hi Becky.” All eyes are fixed on me, some of the looks are judgemental, others are understanding, and there’s a small portion of people who look perfectly miserable. 

“I’m a…” I take a deep breath, embarrassed to find myself saying the words.  They come out in a rushed whisper.  “I’m NaNoWriMo Drop Out.”

Heads nod and there is a scatter of light applause. 

An official looking woman, dressed in a blue cardigan and pearls, pats my arm.  “You’re doing great, Becky.  Just let it all out.”

“The truth is…” I can’t look at anyone, so I study my shoes.  “I really don’t want to quit.”

The arm-patting continues and I hear a few murmured mmm-hmms and one ‘I felt the same way.’

“But I was like four-thousand words behind and I just couldn’t catch up.  My kids were sick, my house was a mess, there was so much laundry to do.”

Blue Cardigan gives me a tight-lipped grin.  “Go on.”

“And I–”  My words are cut off as a door at the back of the room slams against the wall. 

A woman walks in.  A woman with pink hair, a nose ring, and really awesome leather pants.  Besides the tough-as-nails appearance (and super skinny legs), she looks a lot like me.  “Shut up, Becky,” she says with a glare.  “You’re such a whiner.”

The whole room gasps.  All eyes turn to look at the stranger. 

Her hands fist on her hips.  “Stop dreaming and get back to work.”


And then my husband’s alarm went off for the second time. Do I go back to sleep and dare face the scary, pink-haired version of myself or do I get up and write?

I write.

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