A Snails Pace

Well, its Friday and I'm in the Leader office. In reality I suppose I should be answering phones, working my contacts - if I really had any - and covering courts. But I'm a lazy sort of journalist today. The Dungarvan Leader's a weekly newspaper, and so, with most of my work for this week out of the way already, I'm sitting here quite bored, comtemplating - well not much in reality. The meaning of pi, how long precisely it will take to finish my novel, the themes and plot of the work, whether it has depth. Essentially this is it. It concerns a 50 year old who is looking back on an unfufilled life, plotting his way back at those he believes have persecuted him. It tells the story in two strands, the present, and his past misdemeanors. It shows, I hope at least, how his life changes from a fearful youth into a fearsome adult. Much of this transformation concerns his father, a brutal Garda Sergeant, the early death of his mother, his decision to run away from home, and the experiences and people he meets along his way during his period of exile from Ireland. My hope is that it won't be regarded as an Irish novel, but an international one, broad in scope as well as ambition, showing the macro and micro of the changes in a persons life. But as I say, things are proceding at a snails pace around me.
The other night I had a dream which I feel bares significance on my writing (I may well be wrong in this). But anyway the dream begins in this mansion, where I transformed in my dream into a little girl who is the star player of a pro basketball team. In fact I have been kidnapped and held hostage to play for the team. I escape somehow, and am running away down the street. A car comes up behind me, I look back and there's this guy in a balaclava behind the wheel. I keep running, and the car stops and disappears from view. Suddenly I'm in a pub somewhere. I'm with a journalist and an old school friend, who in reality I've not seen for years. They try to bring me home. But the journalist has a better idea. She has looked in this red road map of Russia where the dream is set, and tells me of this place where a journalist I admire went to stay when writing a novel. As I really want to write this novel, I decide to go there. We pace through a number of streets until we come to the right address. The old friend is trying to hold me back, while the journalist is urging me on. Finally I go in, climb the first set of stairs but discover that the second set is crushed down. I spot someone I fear, and starting climbing over broken glass to get in. Then when I'm finally up, I discover this is not a solid building at alll, but a decript bus with part of its roof crushed down. I sit in the seat, and bus takes off - end of dream.
Trying to interpret this I would say that I am talented as a journalist, but the writer in me is saying to take a chance and travel and take time to write. I could be wrong of course.