Subconscious mine

The subconscious mind of a writer … what a piece of work.

I was minding my own business last night – sleeping – when I found myself leaning against a building on a busy street. I was reading a short story in a magazine, a story by a young black man who was all the rage. And to my amazement, I could actually make out some of the words in this dream. Here’s an excerpt:

Then there was the man down at the local watering hole – Nye at the Rye, we called him – who liked to say that things were so bad in this town that, in addition to the booze, he gave out alternate servings of rope and hunger.

I kept running this segment through my mind all night so I’d recall it in the morning. And it only struck me just now as I record it that the hot young black writer … is me.