Weaving the Subconscious

My dreams are a wreck.  I know of people who get happy dreams, a lot of them, but I get stuff that, when it is vivid, is usually so strange and disjointed that I wish I never had them.

Last night wasn’t any different.  There was a dark and gloomy apartment where I was living with someone I couldn’t see, ever; they were always locked away in a room.  Oh, and someone with wooden legs, and that’s all I’d ever see of them, their wooden legs.

An apartment complex full of evil kids who only wanted to steal your money and curse you.

Riding in a large elevator from somewhere underground, and as we are going up (very slowly, mind you), I’m actually imagining being cut in half between the open slab of the elevator and the shaft.

Getting invited to play video games, and then ending up at a concert where a naked Eddie Murphy is dancing around on stage covered in soap suds and whipped cream (yeah, you read that right).

And, lastly, ending up in a room with only a chair to keep me company.

Sure, I can look it all up, and have as much as I can.  A dark and gloomy apartment means possible loss of a lover or money; fighting with children implies you are repressing your inner child; ascending in an elevator represents a rise to status and wealth; getting an invitation foretells that you will receive sad news; being alone indicates feelings of rejection.

Eddie Murphy naked on a stage . . . hell, no.  I’m not goin’ there.  I wouldn’t even know what the hell to Google.

It’s not that I don’t have happy dreams, though that occurring if very rare, but of late I could use them.  I’ve actually been in a very good mood the last few weeks.  I’ve been writing a novel for NaNoWriMo and I finished it Friday in a way that was very special for me.  I’ve been writing articles that keeps me happy and allows me to engage in geeky past times.  Believe it or not I have something in my life that lifts me up and does manage to keep me happy.

And yet my moods flip on me in a second.  Last night was no exception.  I was trying to finish up an article and I just hit the wall.  I couldn’t go on.  I then started in on all the, “Why am I bothering?  What’s this going to get me?”, and all the images I’ve had of late of maybe, really, possibly making a living writing–that all vanished into the dark.  Of course I beat myself up before going to bed, reminding myself to stay positive, to just go one step at a time, to (as a friend is constantly reminding me) take life one step at a time, because we never know what tomorrow is going to bring.

It was probably this mindset that had me dreaming of the stuff I did.  I gotta stop that.

Writing is a lonely game.  You do it alone, and you rarely have people around you who understand why you do it, or what you get out of it.  Most of the time they want to know how much your making off your publications.  It’s a lot of hard work, because once you write you have to edit, and rewrite, and tune that sucker so it makes sense.

Which is why when someone says, “Oh, you’re writing?  How hard can that be?”–the last part usually done with a smug grin on their stupid face–I wanna smack them up side their head with my 17 inch Dell laptop and tell them to crank out 7000 words of something that isn’t total shit, and hand it to me by Friday, and if they can’t do either I’m going to spend Saturday kicking them in the crotch with steel-toed boots . . . that sort of attitude infuriates me.  As if being trying to be creative isn’t hard work.

So I keep on keeping.  I begin editing my novel; I look for a way to publish it.  Then I move on, and come up with the next thing to work on.

All I ask is I have better dreams.  Hey, that one I had where I was a woman and I had really pretty clothes and the heels didn’t hurt and I had someone who liked kissing me–that was a nice dream.

How about more like that?