Last night, I had the worst dream ever. Among the things one generally faces in a horrible dream (inability to escape, plans being continually thwarted, people attacking my dog), I dreamt that someone was trying to take my stories away from me. My dad had found out that if I don't write for extended periods of time, I'll start to hallucinate (this actually happens to me; I'd literally go crazy if I couldn't write), and in an effort to preserve my mental health, decided to remove from me all means of writing until I got over my insanity. Because this was a dream, and subject to dream logic, he was also taking away the stories I'd already written, gathering them up on hurridly-written, ink stained pieces of paper - and as he took them from me, the stories themselves winked out of existence; he wasn't taking the physical stories, he was taking their very being, past and present.
I should mention that my dad is a writer as well and would never do this in real life, even if it were possible - but that's not the point, as far as my relating my dream is concerned.
I just find it interesting, and further proof that I've chosen the right profession, that my worst nightmare consists largely of my not being able to write - not not being recognized for my writing or having my writing scorned and criticized, but simply having my writing taken away. It reinforces my long-held belief that my intentions, when it comes to writing are, and always have been, pure.