The Great Valsby?

Wednesday morning at 4:15, I woke up with the most scathingly brilliant idea. A plot for a novel!

Let the record show that this was no "flaming globes of Sigmund" dream. I knew exactly what I wanted to write. In fact, I could hardly wait until time to get up so I could get started on it. Forget that little thing called my job. I was a woman with a mission. I could see myself holding that hardback with the paper book jacket, all antique white and tan and brown, with a drawing of my protagonist facing the reader, and the minor characters in the background, his mansion the backdrop. A thick book. Not as thick as the unabridged edition of The Stand. Not as thick as The Thornbirds. Not as thick as Gone With the Wind. But thicker than a Jodi Picoult book.

Yes, I was fired up. I could see myself holding that book. Telling people about it. It would become a best-seller overnight. People LOVED my book. An epic tale from the 1970s. With a Robert-Redford-esque main character, but in his younger years. College age. He was from a well-to-do (okay, RICH) family, with a younger brother around 14, and a sister about 18. Rob went off to college and fell in love with a little gal of modest means. Her appearance was not so sharp in this dream, but she had dark hair, and was fairly tall. Rob was her first boyfriend. They were head-over-heels for each other. Girly did not know Rob was rich. His family cautioned him not to use her, and he swore he wasn't. But after six or more months, Rob grew tired of Girly. Nothing she did. He was just restless. The spark was gone. He broke up with her. Girly thought it was the end of her world. Rob's circle of friends, an eclectic group, called him out for his callousness. Especially outspoken was the Margaret-Cho-esque ringleader of their group. They had told him all along not to mess with this girl's feelings. But he did. Rob gave Girly a final goodbye hug, both in their jeans, she in a thigh-length leather coat (probably thrift store, because, remember, she's not well-off) and light blue long-sleeved blouse, he in a white button-down oxford shirt. Oh, the sweet ache of a love gone bad.

Yeah. That's pretty much all I've got. After waking up for real at 4:50 a.m., I was not quite as fired-up about my bestseller. I think it might need some fleshing out.

If you have already read this, let me know. My subliminal mind might be a plagiarist. Because of Redford, I'm thinking Gatsby. Let the record show that Val has never seen the movie, nor read the novel. But she's heard of it. Maybe her subliminal mind has been out catting around while Val sleeps.