In the months before my first book—a collection of personal essays—was published, I dreamt a series of painstakingly literal nightmares. The return of the repressed? I wish. These were unmediated renderings of my base fears about a book I had written coming into the world.

In one dream, the launch is a disaster. A clean-cut regional manager type with aviator sunglasses hanging from his shirt takes over the ceremonies and announces that the event must begin at 1 pm. ‘It’s not supposed to start till four,’ I say. ‘Please,’ I say, ‘please wait for more people to arrive!’ The pointy-nosed man ignores me, and welcomes my seven guests, all strangers.