I don’t often dream of meeting authors, but last night I did.
A young Fyodor Dostoyevsky featured in my dreams last night. Apparently he was having some sort of trouble. I invited him to come into my house, which was on the parade route in New Orleans. We talked in general and had a good time. It occurred to me that maybe I should ask him if he would sign a couple of books for me.
Of course I could not find my copies of anything he wrote, since I had just moved and hadn’t organized anything, but part of the reason I bought the house was because it was a block away from two good independent book stores. I made my way through the crowd and came back with some fresh copies, figuring mine were crappy condition paperbacks anyway. I joked about helping him sell through a few more copies, as if he cared, and we all laughed. I guess everybody knew he was dead, including him.
I have no idea what any of this means, other than I have books on my mind (and Mardi Gras). I would like to think that maybe, somewhere out there, Fyodor Dostoyevsky is reading my work and smiling.