Last night I dreamt about the story that I recently finished and submitted to a few magazines.

I didn't dream about the contents of the story, which would have been cool; instead, I dreamt that I was back in grad school, and the story was being workshopped. Only in the dream, instead of sitting in a circle around a few pushed-together tables, we were all sitting in rows in those grade school desks with the flip-up tops. And the teacher was writing on a chalkboard at the front of the room, which almost never happened during workshop. And the teacher, as s/he (it was a dream, and I can't remember if the teacher was a man or a woman) as s/he was writing things about my story on the board, s/he was singing in this lilting voice about all the things I'd done wrong.

I was at the back of the room, and while the teacher continued singing and writing things on the board, everyone else in class turned around in their too small desks and held up my story, saying, "But nothing happens. I kept waiting for something to happen and it never did."

At least they weren't singing.

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