One night, about a year ago, I decided to quit dreaming.

Every day, every night, for 20 years, the dream was exactly the same – same props, same characters, same outcome. I could picture all of it with vivid clarity, but the fantasy never survived the transition from sleep to the real here and now. It burned up on re-entry. It lived only in the ether of my mind.

In the dream, I was an author. I wrote books. I spent my days on safari in my own imagination. I was satisfied. I was doing what I loved for a living, and that contentment permeated every hard, dark corner of my existence. Then suddenly I was awake again, and the reality that I was NOT the person in my dream washed over me like rain cloud.

So one night, about a year ago, I decided to quit dreaming. I sat down at my keyboard and began to write. I began to create the trappings of my dream in real life.

It has been the hardest year of my writing life. Rejection has reigned. Every small victory has been countered by enormous disappointment and despair. I have neglected friendships, responsibilities, family obligations. Phone calls and emails have gone unreturned. I have opened my soul to criticism, and I have convinced myself that this is my last best chance to accomplish something for myself – to escape the rut of cubicle jobs, financial desperation and career aimlessness.

Thursday morning, my agent called from New York.

“You have a book deal,” she said.

Just like that, the dream became real.

Just like that, my life changed direction.

It has taken me three days to come to terms with what has happened. I have shared the news with family and friends, and although their expressions of pride and joy have filled my spirit, the accomplishment didn’t seem real to me. This isn’t the kind of thing that happens to me. I’m just a copywriter. I’m not accustomed to achievement or satisfaction or…winning.

I did it. I actually fucking did it.

I wonder what I'll dream about next.

Although he is one of the stronger players on his team, my son is not immune from encountering the ire of his baseball coaches. Coach Trevor stopped practice three times Wednesday afternoon to bark at my son, not because of a misplay or a strikeout, but because the boy feels as though he has a right to tell his teammates what to do.

“Hey!” Trevor shouted from across the field. “Do you want to coach this team? Because it’s the coach, not the player, who is supposed to tell the team where to throw the ball. OK? So unless you think you can be the coach, close your mouth.”

I felt for Trevor at that moment. I know this struggle. And if you promise not to tell him I said so, I’ll tell you I kind of enjoyed watching my son get busted. Is that so wrong?

You see, my son’s proclivity for telling others what to do isn’t isolated to the baseball diamond. At Evans World Headquarters, he behaves as though he is an adjunct parent to his younger sister. When Hot Wife or I scold our daughter for her one of her many variations of malfeasance and misbehavior, he’s always there to punctuate our reprimands with a comment of his own. Like so:

Me: “…and the next time I say you can have 10 M&Ms, you may have no more than 10 – certainly not the whole bag. If you can’t follow the rules, you’re going to be in big, big trouble, young lady.”

Him: “Yeah. Besides, M&Ms will give you cavities, and then you’ll to have to go see Dr. Novocain again and get a whole bunch of shots in your gums.”

Me (turning my attention to him): “Don’t you have some parked cars to chase?”

I haven’t yet consulted with BabyShrink for a clinical explanation why my son feels the need or the freedom to supplement (if not altogether subvert) his parents, coaches and teachers, but believe me when I tell you I have tried valiantly to break him of this habit. I’m at a loss. So while a solution to this inconvenience is still pending, I’m choosing to step back and let myself enjoy the show.

Not sure if this is a character flaw or a common human phenomenon, but I have always derived great pleasure from watching other people get busted. It’s why I love to watch COPS on TV, why I like to sit near the penalty box at hockey games, and why I wanted to have kids in the first place. I needed someone to bust.

When Coach Trevor and Coach Chris halted practice Wednesday to reprimand my son for ordering his teammates around, I snickered on the inside. I know he’s my kid and I love him like crazy and laughing at him makes me an asshole of the highest order, but I think I was just happy that I wasn’t the one being scolded.

All together now, “Bad boy, bad boy. Whatchu gonna do? Whatchu gonna do when they come for you?”