I sat down to write on the new novel Saturday, and ended up doing nothing but type and compile some character notes I'd made at various times. Before I went to bed, I started reading my completed novel. The first sentence is horrible. I toyed with fantasies that no one would get past that awful first sentence, or wouldn't reach the point, a couple of pages later, where I felt the prose became smooth and assured. (I didn't notice how flat those opening pages were in my last round of edits.) Clearly, my unconscious mind agreed with me.
I dreamt I was at Readercon, I think at the Friday night "Meet the Pros" gathering--it seemed like the same room and lighting and table arrangements as previous Readercons. I mailed off my manuscript to an agent back at the end of May. In the dream, I had a cell phone, and the agent called me (I think--that part's not clear), and I was encouraged by this, and emboldened to state some of my worries and to ask what the agent really thought. And dream-agent put me off, in that way one forever runs to the wrong gate in missing-the-plane dreams. I distinctly remember dream-agent telling me that Bill? John? George?--some standard male name--had also read it, and thought it swept along wonderfully; but I repeatedly asked what the agent thought, and finally was told the manuscript had some bumpy bits, some bits that didn't cohere (my own thoughts from before I went to sleep).
So then my dream self asked if the agent was going to take me on, and received only silence, for a really long time. In the dream, I seemed to have wandered off somewhere private, but after waiting several minutes for an answer, I yelled out to some unknown people, cursing the person who wouldn't answer me, and still got no answer. Then I became afraid my cursing had been heard, but still no response. I finally had the sense to ask (perhaps I was waking up a little) "are you still there?" but again got no answer, only the horrible dead line.
Then I woke up.