On Being Stuck at the Midpoint of My Next Novel: A True Story

I had a dream last night. I was walking through a forest, lost and alone. I wasn’t scared, though—I knew if I kept walking I’d eventually get to where I was going, even though the forest was so thick I could see only a few yards in front of me.

I’d been moving down a gentle slope for some time. The slope steepened. It soon became so steep that I had to grab onto branches and saplings to keep myself from sliding down. I kept going because I couldn’t face walking back up that long steep hill. I thought I would reach the bottom before long. Soon I found myself climbing slowly down a nearly vertical cliff face, searching for crevices with my toes, holding onto scrubby little trees growing out of the rocks. I looked down to see river rapids hundreds of feet below.

Finally I ran out of hand- and foot-holds. I tried to climb back up to find an easier route, but my arms were too tired to pull me up, and my legs seemed to be paralyzed. I was stuck.

I should just let go, I thought. It's too hard. I'm doomed anyway, why prolong the struggle? Then I woke up.

It was three a.m. I pushed the dog off my legs and sat up and thought, Damn, these metaphors are getting way too literal.