Growing up, I always liked movies. But I preferred reading. Maybe someday I’ll talk about what I preferred reading (keep those speculations clean, I wasn’t reading anything for the articles); it wasn’t until the summer after freshman of high school I really got into movies. Not film, movies. I saw G.I. Jane in the theater, I owned it on LaserDisc, along with many other crappy movies. Sometime in my late twenties, after I would’ve had a place to talk about dreams—getting my MFA, I frequently wrote while falling asleep in attempts to get material (it’s how I got the tone for the first novel, actually) and I’d talk to advisors about them. Also not ready to talk about my Castaneda phase. But in my late twenties, I started dreaming movies. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about them because it’s kind of embarrassing. Last night, I dreamt about a Psycho sequel where Norman has a bigger, tougher older brother and they rampage against anyone who wants to move into the house. It was made in the eighties—I wondered, in the dream, how this sequel would effect that “Bates Motel” show—and there were chase scenes and Anthony Perkins had a more unfortunate haircut than he did in Edge of Sanity. At one point, he was hiding in a manhole, just his head and mohawk the only parts visible. That shot was going to be the image for The Stop Button. Norman Bates with a mohawk.