I had two publishing-related dreams during the night. (Actually, I had many dreams during the night, as I always do, but these are the only two I feel inclined to share.)

In the first, I was at a World Horror Convention in Saratoga Springs, which was a little odd, since the World Horror Convention has never been held there. I was having a discussion with Michael Marano, who in the dream was acting as my lawyer!

We were suing on behalf of Bob Dylan for the rights to some of his old songs (though why we were responsible for doing that I have no idea), and were discussing how we’d made an offer to the corporation which we were about to sue, which, if accepted, would forestall the lawsuit. But we hadn’t heard anything back yet, and as we talked, we worked ourselves up into a frenzy of self-righteousness.

We decided to leave the con right then and file those papers at the Saratoga Springs courthouse. (Which even in the dream didn’t quite make sense, because I knew even while asleep that you can only sue people in certain venues.)

As we started to leave the lobby of the hotel, we crossed paths with Paul Levitz, who in the real world is the President of DC Comics, but in the dream world ran the company which controlled Dylan’s musical rights. We told him what we were about to do, and even though it was going to mean that he’d now be embroiled in a lawsuit, he welcomed it.

I could tell that he was really one of the good guys, and that he was on our side, but because of the internal corporate situation, he needed the lawsuit to be filed before he could go ahead and do the right thing. So he sent us off the courthouse with a wink. I woke while leaving the lobby with Mike.

In the later dream, I was walking through an abandoned, overgrown lot with friends (whose names and faces I no longer remember) toward a graffiti-covered shack. I could see a huge antenna shooting up from this dilapidated shack, and when I got close enough to peer through one of the windows, I could see Stephen King sitting inside. Apparently, this was the radio station King had bought so it would keep playing his favorite rock and roll music.

My friends and I knocked on the door, and said hello, and told King that we wanted to eat at his favorite restaurant nearby, but that it seemed to be closed. He told us to use his name and they’d open it up for us. We thanked him, and off we went.

I ordered the fried flounder … and woke up while eating it.