Stephen King was in my dream last night.
He was doing a tour of small town bookstores and chatting to aspiring and emerging writers.
I sat for a time near him as he dished out advice and heard the challenges of these small town authors. The bookstore was one of those with oak shelving. Rugs and chairs were placed strategically throughout. It was cozy and showed off books like the sacred objects they are.
We sat in a far corner of the store, designated a discussion area by a wooden table and some matching chairs. King held court as a handful of writers hung off his every word.
After a time, the writers seemed sated and they wandered off, chatting amongst themselves. I sat silent, taking it all in. Finally, he turned to me, “Yvonne, is there something you wanna ask? Do you want me to review your manuscript?”
I racked my brain for something to ask this bestselling marvel. “Do you have any unfinished manuscripts in your closet?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Not a one.” He squinted at me. “Why?” he asked. “How many do you have?”
“Three,” I said. “I cycle through them, depending on my mood and inspiration.”
“Oh, Yvonne,” he said dismayed. “You gotta get those out there. Don’t sit on ’em.”
This time I shook my head. “Nah. That’s just not how I work.” Then I got up, thanked him for his time, and left.
***
When’s the last time you followed your own inner compass, despite external influence?
The Reluctant Archaeologist 
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