My Greatest Writing Successes Come In My Dreams.

So I might as well write about them.

Ramona Grigg


Massimo Barbieri — Wikimedia Commons

I had a dream last night. A good dream. I dreamed I pulled out an old, unfinished manuscript and I loved what I was reading! It was so good! And it was already half finished! Then I was writing a query letter and everything I said in it was a guarantee of its success. This book had everything! I woke up trying to remember the query letter so I could use that brilliant piece of marketing when the time came to get back to selling this long-neglected work that so obviously deserved another chance.

All I remembered is that I should mention I grew up in Detroit. Why I thought that was important is lost now in the ether where dreams go to die, but the book in my dream is real. It’s my half truth, half fantasy memoir and it’s so old it’s only on printer paper. I’ve only transcribed one chapter to my computer. Only one. I just never got around to adding more.

It’s not that I never tried to move it online. Years ago, I bought Scrivener, thinking that would help me organize the thing and get it going. (Because that’s what Scrivener promises.) Oh my god, it was a chamber of horrors! I tried. I really tried. I wasted so much time trying to get that program to work for me, I lost interest in ever writing another word of that formerly delightful, incredibly clever memoir.

My book — my potential book — is called Nana, Girl of the Fifties (you read it here first), and parts of it are funny as hell. Parts of it will have to be totally scrapped — even the parts I used to froth over. Now, after all these years, they’ve grown stale and maybe even smelly. It’s crazy how that happens.

I’ve owned the domain name for years, and I keep renewing it on the off-chance I might do something with it someday. I am a girl of the fifties, so who better to write this? Except because I was a girl in the fifties, and the fifties were so long ago, I’ve forgotten how it really felt. The details are sketchy, as are the memories of my fears and hopes and dreams. It all seems so distant now. I barely even recognize that girl, let alone understand her.