You walk a path you know from your past. As you walk, it grows, gets longer, deeper. When you arrive at the end of the forest, the field that appears is not the same as in your memories. The little house on the other side looks a bit like your grandma’s house, but your grandma didn’t live by a lake, and her house had more windows. Crossing the field you feel it changing, merging with the house you saw in that movie so many years ago, when you were still a child. Slowly it glides into something new, something different, a cabin you’ve never seen before. Or have you?
The man who opens the door is kind of like your neighbour, but your neighbour is nothing like Henry Chinaski, and he has no dog. You sit down in a chair, and the walls tell stories of a sullen past with scattered moments of joy and laughter. You realise the dog is really a cat, and it has its story too, just like the old man, just like the house, just like you.
Then something horrible happens.
Writing is quite a bit like dreaming sometimes.