number 9 dream

For years I have had a recurring dream about the post. In the middle of some other, more elaborate dream narrative, there is a knock on the door or a thud on the door mat. Through the letterbox comes an envelope, then another, a shower of mail that spreads out over the mat. Envelopes in different colors and sizes. Some with typed addresses but plenty are handwritten - old-fashioned letters like nobody writes anymore, crammed into fragrant pastel-coloured envelopes. And parcels in intriguing shapes packaged in Manilla and cardboard, some marked 'FRAGILE' in large red letters.

I was in bed this morning when I heard the knock. From my window I watched the postie hand something over. The box is a hefty weight, completely swathed in brown tape and Parcel Force stickers. But my name is handwritten on the top. Inside, the snap of duck tape and pop of bubblewrap. Nestled below are the first 50 copies of my book; cream covers the colour of eggshell.

No sign of stitching. But the cardboard cover feels substantial and the pages crinkle pleasingly on opening. My sister's black and white woodcuts look wonderful inside. It has minor blemishes - an extra blank page, the wrong ISBN number on the back. Mistakes are par for the course on the first print run, I'm told. But I am mesmerised. All is just like a real book. Its realness is startling, the multiple copies a fullness beyond the dream. I want to lug around the box to take in the weight of it.