Nightmare of Sorts

In some part of the wee hours I crawled into bed one morning not so many nights ago, I fell into some boggling dream. Of late, I’ve been dreaming more and more. I don’t necessarily remember any more detail than usual – which is not much to start with – but I do know they are becoming increasingly vivid and affecting because I wake up with a start thinking exactly such. Actually, I lie. I say I don’t remember more than usual, but I have some inkling as to the general and varied (as dreams are) themes which come into play.

But, back to the dream. In the second part, the bulk of it, I was at some sort of interview-elimination process-initiation exercise-test. It had something to do with editing and publishing and some other media of some kind. TV maybe, but I’m really just guessing. I think everyone there had passed some sort of basic editing techniques testing, and now, we were all sitting in a semi-circle, in a big empty room with nothing but bright, white light, and two examiners up the front. None of us have any idea what to expect, and I hear my name being called out first. (Even in my own dreams, I get picked on to be first. Meh.) I am told to come up to the front, am given some sort of manuscript, and told to read it out aloud.

I park my behind on the floor, start reading and… get stuck. The whole thing is riddled with mistakes – typos, spelling errors, grammatical slip-ups. I magically find a pencil I never noticed before, in my hand, and I begin to correct these mistakes, reading by and large, to myself, only half out loud, and repeating sentences to check and recheck them. The whole time, I am oblivious to everyone around me, watching me and waiting to hear what I am told to read.

Time passes, and the more stoned examiner of the two clears his throat, throws some not so nice comments my way, and confiscates the manuscript. He doesn’t care when I try to explain that the text is impossible to read at the state it is in. I am banished back to my seat. My face is burning, and I feel totally humiliated. Fast forward some several students later, and it hits me that they actually want to hear how well I can recite, how skilfully I can make do with a rotten text, how eloquently I can improvise, how good I am at public speaking and thinking on my feet. Or not. Which is, I think, ridiculous. I'm supposed to be an editor, for crying out loud, not some charming, syrupy-voiced TV news presenter.

Now anyone who knows me at all knows that I think eloquence is the sexiest thing, and that all my life, I've strive for it in vain. But I cannot believe I dreamt about editing and my lack of eloquence. I am so clearly on the irreversible path of Nerddom.

The first part my dream involved me going bananas over the fact that someone who has not blogged in some good span of time, hence cutting me off from knowing the silly little nothings that make life life, decided to do just that. Not that I dreamt about her telling me she was going to. I dreamt I chanced upon the new entry and went batty.

Can’t believe I blogged about blogging. I am so clearly on the path of Nerddom.