Two Men In A Suit Walked Into The Room

There’s nothing like a good proofreader to help improve an author’s writing. I mean a friendly human proofreader--preferably one with good eyes and mad grammar skills. Spellcheckers and grammar suggestions courtesy of word processing programs have their limitations. Seriously, how much trust can I place in a machine that once suggested I have my character tromp around the barn in “ranchhand” boots instead of cowboy boots in order to avoid being too gender specific?

A willing friend is an invaluable resource to catch those awkward sentences that slip by so easily in our writing, no matter how many times we’ve gone over our manuscripts. I was reminded of this last week when a member of my critique group wrote the following (used with permission): Almost too late I saw a man running out of the corner of my eye.

Please, somebody catch the tiny guy before he hits the floor.

Of course, I’m not innocent of the occasional sin. There was the time I asked my daughter Jenny to look over a short story I planned to submit to a magazine. I had the manuscript printed and ready to slip into an envelope. She caught this big, fat, glaring blunder: Two men wearing a suit walked into the room.

What, times were tough and they had to share? Joined at the hip, maybe?

And then there was the gem I wrote in another story. A man and his wife have been fighting and are on the verge of divorcing. In the first paragraph the husband leaves the house, slams the front door, and yells back to his wife: I’m going out for a little piece.

Worse yet, this was geared to a religious magazine. Even worse, Jenny was away at school, so I actually mailed the thing. It was rejected without comment, and I was able to laugh at myself—eventually.

But I returned Jenny’s favor when I proofread one of her college short stories about a girl who gave historic tours at an antebellum mansion and hoped to persuade her boss to give up the notion of having the guides wear period costumes. My daughter wrote this: It's hard to go to the bathroom in a hoop skirt.

I've sometimes thought of asking my writer friends to submit their bloopers to me so I can compile them into a book. These writers would remain anonymous, of course. I may do that some day. After all, I've already decided on a cover photo of me hiding my head in shame.

Misuse of a Lucid Dream

Lucid dream: a dream in which the dreamer is aware he is dreaming.

I have long been a fan of lucid dreams. Though my own have been rare, occurring maybe once or twice a year and lasting for a matter of seconds, I love them. And why not? During lucid dreams I can be or do whatever I want. Cool, right? Usually I fly.

Because I am a fan, I also enjoy reading about lucid dreams. Now the authors of some books claim you can easily learn to lucid dream. Upon reaching this happy state, the universe is yours. You can saunter into the hall of Akashic records--accompanied by angels or guides--and read all about yourself and all your past lives. Presumably this would help you to shape up in your current life. Perhaps you would like to control the dream so you could be a famous actor or meet famous people. It’s all there for the asking as soon as you master the techniques in your current lucid dreaming book.

Sadly, none of the techniques in any of the books have ever worked for me. Maybe I haven’t been persistent enough. In any case, I’ve had to content myself with the regular type of dream in which random things happen to me and I’m not the least bit aware these happenings are dreams until I wake up and say to myself, “Thank God that wasn’t real. Me confronting a gun wielding criminal with only an umbrella for a weapon while my car rolls backward over a cliff? I don’t think so.”

But rare as they are, I still think about lucid dreams and try to prepare myself for the nights when they actually happen. Okay, now what do I actually want? A visit with a great master? Maybe a meeting with Einstein when he, having finally worked out the theory of everything, passes the knowledge on to me so I can enlighten the world. Yeah, that sounds like something I could handle. Or maybe a reading with Edgar Cayce in which he recommends a simple treatment that will rejuvenate me back to the body I enjoyed as a twenty-year-old. That would be good.

Okay, so after all this contemplation you’d think I’d be prepared for a life changing event next time I was so fortunate as to become aware while sleeping.

Unfortunately, you would be wrong. Last night I had just finished a dream in which I was helping the FBI catch a bunch of criminals. Don’t laugh. At least that’s better than one of those “naked on stage” dreams. The feds thanked me and said I could leave now that the case was solved. As soon as I turned to go, I discovered that not only was my car missing, but the road back home was blocked. I reversed course, intending to take another direction and ran up on a huge pile of steel pillars that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Perplexed, I said, “Okay, I am not going to be stopped by all these barricades.” Bam. I was lucid. I was instantly filled with excitement and at the same time warning myself to get calm and to think what I wanted to do. I conjured up some random people and asked them where the door was. They led me into a huge banquet hall in what looked like a luxury hotel or a castle.

Sweet. So far so good. My helpers asked me who I wanted to see. Here was my cue to ask for Einstein, Cayce, maybe George Washington to appear and share their wisdom.

I opened my mouth and said, “I want to reach a new level with my writing. Could I have a writing guide.”

“Sure. Who do you want?”

My mind spun with possibilities. I could have any famous author I wanted to come look over my shoulder and guide me to greater heights? Be still my beating heart.

“Umm,” I said. “I couldn’t choose. Could you just bring me someone who would be best for me?” Oh, so humble.

“Wait right here.”

“Not a problem.”

While I waited, I looked around and spotted small cakes piled on tables all around me. Lovely, though in real life I don’t eat sugar because I get too hooked on sweets.

But hey, this was a dream, I was lucid, and I could do whatever I wanted. I proceeded to stuff myself with vanilla cream cakes and then I discovered the cheesecake on the next table. Let me tell you they were delicious, every bit as delicious as if I had been eating them in real life.

Still stuffing myself, cake frosting and cream cheese smeared all over my face, I glanced up to see my helpers returning with my writing guide.

She looked like no writer I recognized. I would describe her as a plumpish, gray-haired woman in her mid-sixties wearing a frumpy, pigeon colored dress.

“Whoops. Sorry about pigging out on the cake. I don’t get to eat sweets in real life.” Darn. Why was I greeting this person with cake all over myself?

“That’s perfectly all right.” Her voice was kind and melodious. “I’m here to help you.”

“You’re my guide?”

“I am.”

The lucid part of the dream suddenly ended. The next thing I knew, I was awake and wondering what time it was. And wondering why I’d wasted my golden opportunity.

My grandson wanted to know the same thing when I told him about the dream. “You ate cake?” He shook his head sadly. “I would have asked for the lotto numbers.”

Doh! And I'm positive I gained three pounds during the night.