I had another waitressing dream last night. They recur, these nightmare dreams. Since I spent so much of my life waiting tables, I go back to that job. The dreams go like this.
I am at the dream made-up restaurant and there is a problem. It could be one of the following. The tables are too many and I don’t have the time or menus or pad to write the order down with. I don’t have the uniform or the shoes or a section assigned to me. The tables are far far away from the restaurant or have just been taken by another waitress.
It’s all bad and stressful. Last night, the other waitress was taking all the tables and I was feeling like I wouldn’t be able to make any money this way. And she was way more efficient than me anyway. The old “why should I if someone else can do it better?” I’m unnecessary?
I am pretty good at translating dreams for other people. Sometimes mine are harder. Once I had a dream image of me sewing my face on with a quill pen. And I love that image’s literal quality. Because that’s what you do as a writer. You create a persona by the stories you tell and the way you tell them.
I am slowly inching forward with a writing career. It’s not moving faster than a turtle’s pace. And a recent bit of good news has probably got my subconscious a little worried. I truly believe that my style is uniquely mine and no one can be me but me. So if me is what you want to hire, I’m the only one qualified for the job. And I was a damn good waitress.