An Odd, Random Dream

I had an odd, random dream the other day. There was a man, scruffy brown hair, bent over a table, scribbling madly in a dimly lit room.

Then there is someone on TV, saying, this writer hasn’t written anything good in years. His first few novels were good, but now he just writes the same tired old story because his publisher won’t let him write anything else. And then they guy says:  he used the money to buy a farm in the middle of no where and shouldn’t be writing anymore anyway.

I wake up and think, what does buying a farm have to do with writing? Than I wonder: why did I have this dream?

But no, probably it’s just a dream. It has to be. I don’t want to own a farm.

It’s just my odd, random dreams are usually more exciting, and generally, do not involve writing in any way.