Knit one, pearl one, Pitt one, Clooney one...

Day 51

I am almost a real author - about 35%, I reckon - I will be a proper, true, authentic, absolute and totally real author, when I get the first official letter of rejection about my book. Come that day I shall know that I am a grown-up.

I handed my carefully packaged manuscripts over the counter at the Post Office today, but the lady behind the counter (with weirdly good eyeshadow) looked extremely grumpy that I was taking a long time and requiring proof of postage, etc. I wanted to break through the glass and hug her tightly, dance around the room with her and shout "Isn't it fantastic? There goes my first book!", but of course I said nothing. These are sensitive times for the the GPO, and it doesn't do to frighten their staff.

My manuscript was too large a file to email to one of the agents, so we spent two days finding ways to compress it. I mailed the agent about the problem yesterday and got a reply today, so I mailed her again with the reduced manuscript and she replied saying she'd got it. This is not the height of wit and repartee, I know, but now I can say that I have "been in conversation with an agent about my book", which is the dog's danglies.

My hormone cream has arrived at last - I ran out several days ago and sleeping has been a bit of a problem. Last night, for instance, when I did manage to nod off, I dreamt about knitting! Honestly, I couldn't believe it - I literally bored myself awake. I've nothing against knitting or knitters (knits?), but as the subject of a dream that did not even have the grace to balance itself out by including George Clooney and a decent carpet, it sucks.

What happened to all those marvellous 'flying' dreams one has when one is young? You could just leap onto an air pocket and sail out over the town, free as the wind, and light as a feather. What did they represent, I wonder, that just stops needing expression once we are no longer children? Or were they a memory of our true state, our pre-birth selves, that adults are too far removed to catch even an echo of?

Although some dreams are too 'X' rated for children, (see George and the carpet, above), nothing is quite as free or intense as the way we slept then. The monsters of our adult nightmares are often too close to the truth, born of our fears and insecurities, to be as easily washed away with a hug and glass of milk as they were then. A pity.

Still, tonight I shall sleep well - my cream both knocks me out and reduces the night sweats, so I'm not too disturbed. Even if I don't, I can lie there planning my next book, and when it's done, I'll take balloons in to the Post Office lady so she can join in the fun.