The other night I dreamt that I had my bike stolen, my important paper files were somewhere not in evidence, and I held in my hand an acceptance letter for a novel I didn't remember writing.
I was at a reading for this very novel, with lots of people sitting around with chocolate and fruit, smiling encouragingly at me. I was glancing at the opening paragraph, trying to remind myself of the story.
Something similar has happened to me before, in small ways, coming across a story I've written, not quite remembering having written it until I get into it. Or I'll remember some scene or nifty dialog, try to remember where I read it, and then realize that I wrote it.
But a whole book? Kind of cool. I thought so in the dream, too. I was looking forward to the reading, to find out what I'd written that was so good someone had bought it. Apparently it had something to do with glass, since there was a picture of drinking glasses on the front cover. (I was just packing in the kitchen the other day.)
A nice dream, even with the stolen bike and missing files. Reading a freshly sold novel aloud is a wonderful feeling, even if you can't quite remember writing it. Good work if you can get it.