last night i dreamt i was an innkeeper and hosted a group of writers to a week-long retreat. i had no fucking idea what i was doing. i repeatedly came upon an aging poet kissing a series of older ladies in the parking lot. a golden boy writer eluded everyone’s grasp. perpetually drunk, young, female writer wannabe’s adored the golden boy writer from afar, hanging on his every word at the dinner table and smiling with their eyeteeth exposed. meanwhile, the middle-aged alcoholic writer seduced the disappointed drunk young female writer wannabe’s. he had a great writing retreat although he told me, “i’m lonely. i should’ve stayed with my wife.”
a girl from Toronto, with red flowers clipped on her shoes, burst into tears several times a day, exclaiming, “my book isn’t selling. why isn’t my book selling?” i didn’t know what to say. on the Saturday night, i prepared for a dinner celebration. i could not find the cutlery and dishes. unexpected guests arrived, demanding food. the chef took over and, somehow, it all worked out.
i don’t know what happened after that.