I had the strangest dream last night / this morning. Though it was really more a fragment of a dream.
I had been published. An actual whole book published in paper. Though the story I know was not a book length tale. Just a short piece I scribbled once in a notebook and discarded. But I was published. I was very proud and I held it up to flip through the pages… about halfway through there were these odd chunks where text had been replaced or pasted over with strange images. Outlines, like graffiti with stretches of lines and runes, hearts and letters. I told (whoever was with me, a dream friend) that they had ruined my book on printing it. I was assured it was probably just a few pictures for enhancement. “Reading is boring.” They said. “You know how publishing goes, they change little things to make it better, that’s all.”
I had self published. There was no one to have changed these things. Only I didn’t say so, I just went back to flipping through the book and became more and more distraught as the images smeared and scattered, spreading like a fungus until nearly the whole thing was a mess of images clattering against one another and almost completely covering all of my words.
This is not my book. They’ve destroyed my story. How dare they put my name on this. Taking my words and running them through to nothing.
“You’re over reacting.” My dream friends and family told me. No one understood, and they all thought I was being ridiculous. “I like it better this way.” Some said.
I stopped flipping through the book, I didn’t open it at all, but I kept it still and carried it with me. Offering a silent lie for whoever asked about it.