Sweet Dreams Are Made of These

The brain is a beautiful, mysterious organ. Not only does it keep us alive physically, sometimes it keeps our dreams alive while we don’t even realize it.

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I stepped up the querying. The upside, I am hopefully closer to snagging representation by an agent. The downside, the rejections come in at a stepped up pace as well.

That happened last week while the hubs and I spent a few days in Austin for a golf, spa and, for me, writing vacation. Then the rejections rolled in. Three of them in three days. It was hard for me to push through a hurdle in my manuscript when thoughts like, “why bother writing part two if no one will bite on part one?” floated through my head. But, I pushed on and got passed that stubborn chapter.

That’s when my psyche stepped in and took over.

Rather than hit South Congress or the music fest in Austin this weekend, we opted to have a casual dinner out and head back to the resort early. Since we’re not total old fogies, we decided to watch “Midnight in Paris,” Woody Allen’s most recent film. If you don’t know the storyline, Owen Wilson is an aspiring novelist who falls in love with Paris and longs to live there and evoke the spirits of Hemingway, Fitzgerald and all the other Great American Novelists that called Paris their home a century ago.

One night, while wandering the streets of Paris, he found himself transported back to this golden age where he got writing advice from Papa, shared his work with Gertrude Stein and partied with the Fitzgeralds.

I really liked it. It spoke to me and seemed to be the medicine my ailing self-confidence needed. Then, I turned off the light and was transported to my own Paris.

I don’t always remember my dreams. It seems that I recall bits and pieces. And that’s the case for when I woke (too early!) this morning. In my dream, I checked my email on my phone. There was a message from an agent. She thought my MS was “amazing” and was “thrilled” to offer me representation. I must have been driving in my dream, because I pulled over and let my heart fill up with fulfillment, happiness and pride. And then I cried. In my dream I started crying tears of joy.

As light peeked through the drawn curtains of our hotel room, I pulled on some clothes, grabbed my computer and quietly left my snoring husband to tap the renewed faith that dream gave me.

Whether that dream will come true remains to be seen, but it did exactly what I needed it to. It reaffirmed my brain’s faith in me.

About Kimberly Packard

Kimberly Packard is an award-winning author of women’s fiction. She began visiting her spot on the shelves at libraries and bookstores at a young age, gazing between the Os and the Qs. Kimberly received a degree in journalism from the University of North Texas, and has worked in public relations and communications for nearly 20 years. When she isn’t writing, she can be found rollerblading, doing a poor imitation of yoga or curled up with a book. She resides in North Texas with her husband Colby, Oliver the cat and a 75-pound lap dog named Charlie. Her debut novel, Phoenix, was awarded as Best General Fiction of 2013 by the Texas Association of Authors.
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