I was sitting at a schoolboy's desk-chair. Dozens of other students were sitting in the rows of chairs around me; we were in a typical classroom, except we were all sitting outside in a large field. I was deep in reverie, paying little mind to the task at hand on which the other students were working. We had all been given little white cards which contained some kind of aptitude test to determine how smart we were. I had taken a similar test before and had proven to be the brightest student on my age level. But I was tired of such tests, and this one I had just ignored, not answering a single question. When the time came to hand in the test, I absent-mindedly passed my card to the person sitting next to me. My empty card was passed along to the end of the row.

The teacher of the class walked up and stood beside my desk. She was a young blonde-haired woman, attractive. She was obviously upset because I hadn't completed the test. She berated me, listing several other things I had done, things with which she found quarrel. I listened patiently, thinking she really didn't know what she was talking about. However, I did agree with one thing she said: she had mentioned that I had used a lawnmower to cut some grass in a swampy area. I recalled I had been working for someone else who had paid me to cut down the grass in the swamp. However, even as I had been cutting the swamp grass, I had felt that it wasn't the right thing to do, that I was damaging the environment. Now when I looked back on it, I still regretted having cut the swamp grass, and I would have to admit the teacher's criticism of that activity was on point.

As for the rest of what the teacher said, she was quite misguided. She had no idea of what was best for me. I thought of trying to explain it to her. I might try to picture to her the feeling of immense freedom which I was beginning to experience. Just before she had walked up, in my reverie, I had imagined myself in a small plane, flying past the huge rock face of a steep mountain. Perhaps if I explained it to her, the teacher would begin to understand how free I felt.

It would be difficult to explain. I would probably have to go into detail, explaining that my sense of freedom was based on finally being economically independent. I would have to explain how I had worked for several years as a bankruptcy attorney and had saved my money. I could tell her I had represented over 1,000 bankruptcy clients and had charged an average of $1,500 per case. Of course not all my clients had paid me, but the teacher could do the math and figure out I had made quite a bit of money in a relatively short time. And now I had enough to live on and do what I wanted to do most: to write.

If I explained all this to the teacher, I would have to go into detail about how I hoped my new-found freedom would now allow me the time to write; and then I would have to explain how I wrote my dreams, how I had learned to weave the dream scenes together, and some of my feelings about writing dreams. Before the teacher had walked up I had been thinking of how much my style of writing dreams had changed over the years. The thought that had been most prominent in my mind was to remain "faithful to the truth." What I had learned was that it was possible to write interesting understandable dreams, and still tell them truthfully. There were many ways to write dreams. My ways were the result of long effort, effort which was finally producing results. I had learned to concentrate on the transitions from scene to scene, carefully sewing the images together. And I had learned to concentrate more on each word, sometimes struggling long to birth just the right word.

I now realized explaining all this to the teacher would be pointless. Besides I wasn't much interested in explaining any of this to anyone. I was much more interested in simply having people read my dreams. I was finally reaching the point where I felt less inhibited about people reading my dreams, and I knew it was time to look for an audience. I no longer felt I was wasting people's time by asking them to read what I wrote. I felt as if I had something worthwhile to say, and as if people would benefit by reading me.

I specifically thought about Weinstein. Weinstein and I had gone to high school together and had remained friends over the years. At different times I had sent him my dreams to read; but I hadn't sent him any in quite a long time. His time was valuable, and I had always thought I might be intruding upon him, but I recalled the last time I had seen him, he had seemed to be leading a rather dissolute life, not really using his time to advantage. Now I realized I wouldn't be wasting his time – he wasn't using his time wisely anyway. I thought it would be a good idea if I started sending him my dreams again.

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