I was in line to get an autograph from famously reclusive author Thomas Pynchon. I have never read any of his books, and knew this in the dream, but was doing so regardless. One of the people managing the signing came up and asked me to write out my name on a piece of paper so Pynchon would know how to sign the book. I wrote out my name but spelled it wrong.
I laughed an apologized, said I was tired, and proceeded to spell my name entirely wrong again. The handwriting was really shaky and there were just randomly incorrect letters inserted. I said I was tired again and asked for a slip of paper to practice. I still couldn’t get it right. Eventually I decided it was good enough and asked to write it out on the official form again so Pynchon could sign it. I was the only one left at the event, I was holding things up at this point.
They gave me the paper and I tried my hardest to write out my name. I did it (though with atrocious handwriting), only to realize I had arbitrarily appended “is” to the end of my name. At that moment I realized I was dreaming, since this sort of inability to write crops up in my dreams from time to time. I realized it was only fair to tell Thomas Pynchon.
“Thomas Pynchon,” I said to him, “I’m so sorry to tell you this but this is all a dream. I’m dreaming right now none of this is real.”
“Oh no,” said Thomas Pynchon, “I thought I was real.”
I could tell he was quite sad about this. “Don’t worry,” I consoled him, “You’re a real writer, and you’re very famous in reality. You’re a dream but Thomas Pynchon is most definitely real.”
This made him much happier and I was able to wake up without feeling guilty about it.