There’s an interesting correlation going on, I think, between what I’ve begun writing and what I’m seeing when I doze off to sleep. It’s hard to say because my dreams have, of late, become a very strange place to reside, even for me.
Let me see if I can make sense of this.
Part of what I saw last night was like a movie. I didn’t actually sense myself there, but rather I sensed I was seeing things as if I was seeing things unfold. The reason I didn’t feel like I was there was because the scenes were dealing with people who I’d never associate with in real life–that’s to say, douchey frat-boy types running around spending money and being jags with the ladies. It seemed that what I was seeing was a run on the checking account of one clown’s parents, and while there was much partying going on, there also seemed to be a great deal of concern that sooner or later the parents whose checking account was being assaulted were going to catch on very soon.
And that’s when I stepped onto the stage–more or less. In the next phase of the dream I ended up on an ocean pier where I was speaking to said Frat Douche’s parents, and they were asking me for advice on how to deal with sonny. My advice was very sound: he wrote off over one hundred thousand on parties, pizza, and poon, so have him killed–and for ten thousand I’ll take care of him. (Hey, don’t we wish it was always that easy?) See, I’m hiring myself out as a hit man in my dreams; how quaint.
The end result was I ended up meeting with the kid in question on the same pier, where I chloroformed him, then jumped off the pier and dragged him underwater to his doom. Since he’d had a few beers before the meeting, it looked like he feel because he was drunk. I love it when a plan comes together, even in my dreams.
And then it comes to the next section . . . with a lot of changes.
Now I’d switched genders, and I was walking around outside my house–and it was a really nice house, trust me–in an outfit that would be nice for the late fall, when the weather is changing and the leaves are falling. I was trying to set up something on the roof, but for some reason I couldn’t get anything up, and the neighbor woman from across the street came over to help climb up the ladder and place things on my roof. And after that we sat on the patio and drank hot chocolate and talked about writing. No, seriously. We talked writing.
And then right after that . . ..
Now, for something a bit different. Lately I’ve been writing up a storm. I’ve got the blog (all you people following me, thank you!), and I’ve got my NaNo Novel that is in the editing stage at the moment (Chapter 8 done and Chapter 9 to come). I’ve also begun work on another story, a science fiction short (though I’m already up to about 1,700 words, I don’t know how short it’s going to be) that concerns characters in my first, unpublished novel. The story begins with one of the main characters having a dream of someone they haven’t seen, or even thought of, in five years, and by the time it’s over this character ends up seeing things about his life that he never realized could have happened.
Without giving too much away, the story involves time travel and multiple realities, and this main character gets a good look at one of the ways his life could have gone, instead of how it did go–which was, to end up somewhere in the future. Confused? Good.
But the story is bookended by dreams, which is why the last part of my dream is so unusual–
My girly self ended up going from the chocolate-drinking patio to standing in a dark hallway. I recognize this place, because I’ve been here many times before. I call it “The Big House”, because that’s exactly what it is. Sure, you could say it’s a museum, because the damn thing is big enough to be one, but it doesn’t feel like that, it feels more like a very big mansion. (As long as it isn’t the mansion from my NaNo Novel, because that would be bad.)
I was in a nightgown, walking barefoot through this silent hallway. It wasn’t dark, but it was night. It was very quiet, and because I was barefoot I didn’t hear myself while walking. I could hear music, off in the distance, and I headed in that direction.
I could feel my body as I moved, and things felt . . . different. Trust me. I don’t have a good idea what it would feel like to walk around in a nightgown while being a woman, but it would probably feel the way I felt it in my dream.
I kept walking towards the music, and came to a doorway. I look beyond the door, and there was a large room on the other side. And there, in the room, was another person. I’m not certain if I knew them, because they had their back to me. I do know they were a woman, because I saw their long hair . . ..
But I saw nothing else, because I woke up.
The thing that hit me while I was laying in bed remembering this is that, last night, I ripped off a bit more than 500 words on my new story. And the section written was the retelling of the dream that starts the story–which, if you haven’t figure it out by now, was a lot like the dream I had, only it was told from a guy’s point of view.
What does it all mean? Are my stories following me into my dreams? Or have my dreams become an extension of my stories? Or am I spending too much time trying to figure things out that don’t need figuring?
We’ll see, because I’ll work on this new story each day. I want to work on it only because it’s something I need to tell.
And, perchance, to dream of as well.