Funny. My subconscious tried to give me a pep talk last night.

I think I've gone into a plant store, somewhere like Hood River, somewhere near Portland. I'm about to ask the owner if she knew about my mother when one of the people, a short woman who I think is the owner comes over and gives me a massive hug.

I melt and say, "I wondered if people remembered my mother."

But she starts talking about so-and-so and how much he'd been impressed by my book, and how they'd all been wrong, they (the Portland SF crowd) had thought I was a joke, but actually I was a good writer. And so-and-so (an important writer, whoever it is) says that I'm a #2 writer.

"Oh, a #2," I say dubiously.

One of the other people, who is an older guy, nods his head. "That's really good. That's Robert Silverberg range. You know Robert Silverberg?"

"Of course. I like his books.

The guy nods.

"But not top rank? Like Roth, say?"

No one answers.

Anyway, the rest of the dream is confusing, me trying to figure out who they are, which book they are talking about, "I have 18 books, you know," and so on. Finally, I wander off on my own. When I come back, I ask the clerk who the little lady was, but he answers, "I'm a writer too," and the guy standing next to him says, "Aren't we all?"

Anyway, I woke glowing and then realized it was fucking me telling fucking me that I was fucking good.