I had the most bizarre dream, a dream like none I had ever had before. It was like I was watching a story unfold in my head, with unique characters and crazy plotlines. When I woke up I was in a haze: “What was that?” I willed myself to fall back asleep so I could find out more, but I was awake and I was jazzed. A story, a book, a novel, I had to write it down immediately, lest I forget anything. I got out my journal, and I started writing and writing — it was like someone had unleashed the floodgates of fiction in my brain. Is it good? I don’t know, does it matter? It feels good, frantic and exciting, like being on a Red Bull bender.
So this is what happens when you are forced to shut off that part of your rationalizing brain that says, “You must sit behind a desk for eight hours, you must put up with bureaucratic bullshit, and you must pretend to like people you can’t stand.” This is what happens when you give yourself over to your brain and your personality and you finally find joy. As a dear friend of mine said, “Who wants to get to the end of their life and have their tombstone read, 'Here lies Michelle, she could make a really kick-ass spreadsheet,'" — how utterly terrifying and depressing.
