anxiety dream

      

 
The first challenge:  the theme is a story about birth or birthdays.  
I chose not to be too literal for the literal challenge!

'Tonight you're in at the start of the new me,' said the Author, swigging back the last of his pint. He looked around the bar, perhaps expecting a hushed silence to descend, eager to pick up the details of this dramatic intelligence: but everyone gabbled on as usual.

His companion stared at him: then a slight, mischievous smile. This was Ferzackerley. He was always good at scoffing. 'Seriously? Giving up drink for a month? Hardly life changing.'

'No, that's not the main thing.'

'What? Have you joined the Lib Dems now?'

'No, of course not.'

'So you're still in love with “creative ambiguity” then.'

'Look – let's not get into Brexit again – it's nothing to do with politics. I'm not giving up drinking for that. It's for literature.'

'Oh! Lit-er-a-ture! The old writing bug again? How long's that going to last?'

'A month. At least.'

'No way. Go on, have another pint. It may be your last.' He scoffed and went to the bar. From the way he chatted to Olga, and the way they looked over, he could see they were discussing his pledge. She was good at scoffing too.

'I haven't told you the whole story,' the Author said when he got back. So he told him about the plan. It was time he did something with his life – something different – something worthwhile. And this was a good time to do it. It was still bright sunshine outside the Oscar Wilde, this late in the evening. Ah! The long days of June were coming up, his favourite month. He felt more energised, more alive, so what better time to start a new way of life. 'So I'm going in for this literary challenge,' he said. 'You know I love writing.'

'More in theory than in practice,' said Ferzackerley. Yes, good at scoffing, was Ferzackerley.

'I wouldn't say that.'

'I wish I had a pint for every time you said you had an idea for a new novel or a play, and three weeks later you're not past chapter one.' Not far off the mark, actually. 'What kind of literary challenge?'

Just then, Olga came over to collect glasses. 'We're gonna miss you,' she scoffed.

'It doesn't mean I won't be coming to the Oscar. I can still – '

'Have you tasted that nought percent beer though? It's shit! And I can't see you with a pint of orange juice and lemonade.'

'Just watch me!'

'I do. Frequently.'

She moved on and the Author turned back to Ferzackerley. 'You see, the challenge is to write a short story every day during June. And at the same time keep off the booze for the whole month. That's not part of the challenge – just my own personal goal.'

'Why don't you learn Japanese while you're at it, and take up knitting.'

He took a couple of swigs of the IPA. It tasted good. He was going to miss it.

'What kind of short stories? How short is short?' Ferzackerley was starting to get more enthused.

'They don't say. They don't judge you.'

'So you could write, say for example: A man walked into a pub and ordered drinks all round. The customers all cheered and he went home very happy and well loved. The end.'

The Author glared.

'What's wrong with that? It would take you five minutes and you'd be back here for your usual in no time. If they don't judge you.'

He sighed. 'You don't get it. The idea is that this imposes discipline. I want to really use this opportunity. I plan to get up every day at 8am and write over coffee – '

'You'd be better writing on paper.'

'I'll make a coffee then start writing.'

'You see, that's your problem – you need precision to be a writer. The perfectly selected word. The well turned phrase.'

'You would know.'

'Not that the stuff you've showed me, the stuff you've managed to almost complete, hasn't been quite – interesting. But yes, I'd be pretty good as a writer, actually.'

'Why don't you then?'

'I couldn't be fucked, to be honest. Sitting alone in your room all day. And for what? Not much money in it, unless you're gonna write some trashy airport novel. Not much money in the stuff you write, as far as I can see.'

'I don't do it for the money. I enjoy it.' He swigged the beer again. He didn't sound convinced. 'Look. I admit: half the time I have a great idea but I struggle to get it on paper.'

'Why do it then?'

'It's the creative process. Something out of nothing. It's joyous when you bring something new into the world. A new thought, a brand new idea.' Another swig, another doubt. 'So yea, coffee then start writing, a couple of hours in the morning. First draft. Then a couple more in the evening. Each day they send you a theme for the day at 10pm. So I'll check out the theme, have a bit of a think and let it mature overnight, ready to start fresh in the morning.'

'Fester overnight, more like. You'll be tossing and turning all night worrying about it. Or maybe just tossing!' A vulgar laugh.

He can be so crude sometimes, thought the Author: perhaps that's why I like him. 'No I don't think so. I've come up with some of my best ideas in dreams.'

'The dreamer. Yes, sounds about right.  So when does this start?'

'Tonight. The first theme is for the first of June. It arrives about two hours before midnight. I'm going back soon to see what it is and start to think about it. Then write and submit it within thirty-six hours. Actually that's what I like about the challenge. It gives you something to bite on.'

'Well it sounds pretty organised. What kind of themes?'

'I've no idea.'

'So why the no drinking thing at the same time? What are you calling it? Dry June-uary?'

'It's about time, isn't it? I told you what the doctor said about my liver results.'

'I thought it was marginal.'

'Marginally bad.'

'Well, no harm in it, I suppose. But I just can't see you – '

'Why not?'

'Because you never follow through. There was the Italian course, and the choir. And the 10,000 steps a day. How's that going by the way?'

'So – '

'Not to mention all the aborted writing attempts.'

'Well, now's the time. This feels right. A good way to get discipline in my life.'

'Well, good luck to you mate. Glad to be in at the birth of the Great Literary Genius!' He raised his glass to me. 'It's your round!'

* * *

The Author sat at his desk: anxious, waiting. Occasionally he looked around his little world: all the accoutrements were there. He smoothed his hands over the leather top of his mahogany desk, loving the feeling. He reached for the levers of his ergonomically designed chair, but the height and inclination were already just right. He rearranged the pencils once more in their china cylinder, set at just the right distance to pull them out. He picked up the loose sheets of paper, rich and thick, tamped them again on the desk, to form a perfect block in front of him. He looked over at the window: opened just enough to allow a little refreshing night air, but not a blast. Everything in place, all fine. He looked down again at the paper. White, all white, accusingly blank. He was waiting for something – the subject.

           He picked out one of the pencils. Could he dare to sully that perfect sheet with the graphite, when he had no idea where he was going with it? He had to write something. Something new, some new thought, some new concept that no-one had ever thought of before. He watched as the beautifully sharpened point approached the paper. The subject. Sometimes it just comes if you start with something. Something, anything.

Tonight you're in

           Then, with an audible crack, the point snapped and the pencil dug into the fibrous surface. He reached for the sharpener, located just at his elbow. He tried to sharpen the pencil, but the lead cracked, then fell out. Strange. He threw it into the waste paper basket, carefully placed by his feet. He pulled out another pencil.

Tonight you're in at the

           This time the point penetrated the paper, dragging right through to the next sheet. It felt like a 6H pencil, not his favoured 2B. And the paper – not his favourite smooth wove bond, but some hand made coarse monstrosity. A sudden gust picked up the first sheet, then a few others. They fluttered up like Alice's playing cards and as he reached instinctively to catch them he sent the pencil holder flying – it crashed in smithereens on the hard marble floor.

It was like an anxiety dream, where everything conspires to keep you from the task in hand. The task in hand. The subject. But what was the subject? Then there was a strange pinging sound. Familiar but –

Wait! I don't write with pencils, I use a laptop. I type! I don't have a mahogany desk. I don't have a marble floor. It IS an anxiety dream! And the ping is …

           Slowly he dragged himself to consciousness. The inbox ping. He'd fallen asleep while waiting. Of course he was anxious! He looked at the clock: 10pm. This was it – the first challenge – the first theme. He looked across his room: no mahogany, no marble, just the familiarity of Ikea Contemporary. Slowly he pulled himself from the bed. Anxiety – yes – but excitement too. What was the first challenge going to be? He moved over to the beech veneer desk. Papers strewn everywhere, a couple of half empty coffee mugs and a beer bottle. This was more like it. He sat at the slightly wobbly chair he'd pinched from the place where he'd worked ten years ago, and hit the enter key on his laptop.

It died.

           I meant to charge it! I meant to stick it on the charger before I went out for a drink with Ferzackerly, he thought, so everything was ready. Why can't I be like that prissy guy in the dream? – everything perfectly arranged, all right there, ready.

He looked around for the cable. Where the – ? Then he remembered. He frantically searched his weekend bag. There it was. And thundered up again. Plugged it in; little light on; yes it was charging. He made a desultory attempt to tidy up the desk, plumping the papers up together, gathering the cups and bottle together. It seemed like five minutes before the aging laptop started to boot up. Then ages to get through the sequence. Then finally. Login; password.

           Not recognised. Please try again

           He was shocked: it had always been 2Bornot2B. He thought, maybe that's why he had been dreaming about 2B pencils. But he wanted to focus. Password. Password. What was it? The laptop was usually on so he rarely needed it. But wait – had he changed it after that facebook security breach? He'd changed most of them.

           He tried 3Bornot3B – and this time he was in. As he went through the menus he started to think about anxiety dreams. You always get these frustrations, another problem to stop you reaching that elusive goal. This could be a good subject for a challenge. He was into google mail now, but it was hanging: the little clock face going round and round but nothing happening. He tried another site: same thing. He looked at the time. Fifteen minutes past ten: thirty-five and three quarters hours left to submit the first challenge. And counting. He glanced over at the router. Doesn't it normally have a load of flashing lights? Switch on and off. The lights started to come on slowly. He went back to the laptop. The screen had gone black again and when he hit return, it asked for his password. 3Bornot3B.

           Not recognised. Please try again

           What? Had he got the caps and lower case the right way round? This was starting to be just like an anxiety dream for real. Like those ones when you think you wake up but actually you're still dreaming. Or – wait –

           He started suddenly awake. There was an echo in his head, like the memory of a sound. A ping. The email! He looked around. It was still ten o'clock precisely and yes, he'd been dreaming all the time. This time the room was normal, neither prissy nor untidy. Just normal! And it was time. He jumped up, excited. The laptop was on, fully charged. He glanced at the router: winking away happily. And he was straight in to google mail. This was more like it! But still no email. Come on, they claimed to be efficient, and he only had thirty-six hours.

So they said you didn't have to write about the theme. The subject could be anything. He typed The Literal Challenge – Day 1 in the header. The page was all ready for him: he twiddled his fingers over the keys, gave them a little workout.

Let's think: a nice gentle start. So, what was it going to be about? The empty page waited. White, very white. Maybe I can adjust the brightness. Just focus: no distractions. You can do this!

           What was it he'd thought to himself in that dream? Sometimes it just comes if you start with something. Something, anything. And what had he written? His fingers tentatively descended to the keys.

           Tonight you're in at the start of

He paused. Could he make it some kind of meta story? Writing about writing a short story? Well, he had thirty-six hours hours. Time to think. Maybe not that but – a story about anxiety dreams? But that would be repetitive. And a good short story needs a hook; a twist to end it. He couldn't see how to work that in.

           Tonight you're in at the start of the new

           Something was wrong with the m key: it was sticking. Then the doorbell rang. At this time? He leaned out of the window and looked down at the front door. It was Ferzackerley.

- What is it?

- Just going back from the pub. I just wondered if you got that first challenge.

- No. It hasn't come.

- Because – just a thought. You said the first challenge was for tomorrow, the first of June, right?

- Yes?

- Well, tomorrow is the thirty-first. Of May. Anyway, I brought you a couple of beers if you need some encouragement.
- O shit. Is it? I guess I'm getting anxious about the whole thing. You know, I dozed when I got back from the pub and had an anxiety dream.

- Oh! Like when you're running through treacle?

- Well, more like you keep getting distracted from doing what you're meant to be doing.

- Ah. OK, I get the message. You don't want that in real life as well!

- Thank you. You're good at taking hints. But I'll be fine.

- Goodnight then.

- Goodnight Ferzackerley. See you at the pub tomorrow.

The Author went back to the keyboard. Distractions over. He could relax. He had another day to prepare mentally. But wait – there are thirty days in May, aren't there? Thirty days in May – wasn't that the title of that film about the boxer? It MUST be thirty days then!

How did that rhyme go? Thirty days hath September, April, May and – He started frantically at the keyboard. The m key stuck again. Please! No more distractions: this was real life and he needed to get on.

Or – wait – 

Second part of this meta story here.