Category Archives: Dream

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Out with the old, in with …

As you can see, this old pig blog is wearing a new dress. The font is smaller than on my old theme, but it’s hard to find a newer WordPress theme that isn’t hard on my eyes. Never fear. I use the Firefox add-on called NoSquint, which lets me enlarge the font on any webpage. I think I got all the kinks out, but let me know if you see any problems.

Don’t forget! November is a special month for us writers—no not that—it’s National House Cleaning Month! That zany 30 days designated for us obsessed writers to step away from the keyboard and rediscover the vacuum cleaner, the bottom of the laundry basket, and exactly what lies beneath that pile on the dining room table. If you’re joining me, let me know and get your counter set up, so I can keep an eye on the competition. I’ll also add your name and a link to your blog on the NaHoCleMo page I’ll add on Monday. Watch my counter in my sidebar —>

Things I afflict you with. I haven’t talked about any dreams, nor have I inflicted one of my dreadful poems on you lately. Guess what? Your luck has run out.

MIRAGE

I wrote something fabulous
in a dream.

I read,
heart racing.

Exhilaration.
Elation.
Anticipation.

I woke,
deep sighing.

I wrote something fabulous,
in a dream.

So there you have my Weekend Whoop-de-doo. I wish you a Happy Halloween, Samhain, or whatever your weekend holds.

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Scene shifting

I’m still a little dizzy after seeing the movie Inception yesterday. I tried hard to keep each thread of the story straight, but ended up in a tangle. To me, dreams within dreams within dreams … was more confusing than time travel. (Or maybe I was just too distracted by how much Joseph Gordon-Levitt looks like Heath Ledger.) And what about that ending that doesn’t end—did it topple or not? Nonetheless, I felt satisfied with the experience.

I’d like to know how they crafted the Inception storyline. I can’t imagine it was written the way it played out. I would write each dream/reality sequence  chronologically and then shift and intertwine them. But what do I know? I have never, and don’t think I could, write a story like that. Not just because it’s so complicated, but also because I don’t have the kind of writer’s mind for mystery/thrillers. My latest chapter revision is difficult enough.

At my last critique group meeting, we agreed I should rearrange the order of all the scenes in my new opening chapter. On Friday, I printed out the chapter and cut the scenes apart. It looked an impossible puzzle with all the scenes spread out on the table. My first attempt at reordering was a mess; the second was better, and on the third try it fell into place … I think. Then I used a glue stick to put the scenes back together in a new order. Now I’ll have to write new connecting narrative between these scenes.

Another suggestion from my C.P.s was that I might be trying to fit too much information in one chapter, so I’ll be considering that too. All this is good. Deep down, I felt I’d started this novel wrong. Now I’m correcting that. Next up will be a query letter revision. Fun, fun, fun … not.

Your turn: What will you be working on this week?

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The why of want

I want to be published. I really want to be published. I talk about it. I dream about it. I fantasize about it. I hope, pray, and wish on stars for it. Below is what I wrote in the small notebook I carry in my purse:

“It is 2:49 pm on Wednesday, 21 April, 2010 and as I sit in a McDonald’s Playland full of squealing children I feel certain I will be a published author.”

Yes, I want to be published. I don’t care about fame, in fact I’d just as soon not have that. Money would be nice, but that’s not my motivation. I want validation. I want to know that all the time I spend writing has a better purpose than avoidance of housework. I want my words to mean something to someone besides me.

I have no illusions of grandeur. I’m fully aware that nothing I write is important. It has no power to change the world. It will never be studied in a classroom. Yet it could transport readers into a time, place, or circumstance other than their own for a while, and there is worth in that. To see through another’s eyes, feel through another’s heart, think through another’s mind has purpose. I want someone to experience this through my words. I want to share the stories given to me.

I want to be published.

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Witch Hunt

Lately, I’ve had several vivid dreams, though I only remember snatches when I wake. The other night I dreamed I was standing in the dark, looking at flames. I felt … odd. I woke at that point, but the dream stayed with me as I stepped into the bathroom. I realized what I felt was a mixture of things, a contradiction—power and fear? joy and despair? Not until the next morning did the location of this dream scene flash before me.

They say there are strangers who threaten us,

In our theaters and bookstore shelves,

That those who know what’s best for us

Must rise and save us from ourselves.

from “Witch Hunt” — Lyric by Neil Peart

This was a scene from my past. A memory of the night I stood in the parking lot of Windsor Village Baptist Church and participated in a book burning. This was the mid-70s, the era of The Exorcist, and my church was in the midst of Satan-mania.

Whenever this memory surfaces, I try to remember what books I burned, though I’m sure I’ll never have the complete list. I had little money to buy books, and probably owned no more than twenty—mostly paperbacks and used library books. Ironically, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 was one of the books I burned.

Other fiction thrown on the pyre was Ira Levin’s Rosemary’s Baby, Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, and Jacqueline Suzanne’s Valley of the Dolls. But even non-fiction like Jess Stearns’ The Search for the Girl with the Blue Eyes or Marian L. Starkey’s The Devil in Massachusetts or—unbelievably—Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings did not escape my zeal. Nor did Khalil Gibran’s poetic The Prophet. I ruthlessly routed out their potential “demonic influence.”

I was a different person then. I was one of those the Rush song refers to, thinking I knew what was best, I became one of those strangers—to myself. The memory of that frightens me. The thought I might again be so easily influenced, frightens me even more.

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What if?

Yesterday was my first day with a totally quiet house again. I wrote a short poem, revised a query letter, and thought about starting another blog—and then things really got crazy. I had intended to return to writing my next novel, but instead I spent the afternoon asking myself what if? Actually, I have starts on two novels, but a couple days ago, the novel I had decided to wait on spoke up. I agonize over choices, so that’s partly why I hadn’t started writing.

If you want to know the truth, I was killing time on Twitter. I asked Kayla how her edits were going, and she asked me what my next novel was going to be, and zap! I remembered a dream I had a couple weeks ago. In the dream, I had torn my last novel apart and made it three novels. I remember telling someone it was the logical thing to do. Then Kayla left for the gym and I got up to start laundry and assorted other housewifey things. But all the time, I pondered, What if …?

I have three main characters and three parts in my last novel, so I probably could divide and expand to make three novels from it. Why would I even consider that?! It’s crazy. Well then, I could write a prequel or sequel—or both. Would I write about Meredith? Jalal? Renee? Where would I start their story? Where would I end it? Ideas started popping like corn.

Now, I’m aware that this could be some sort of post-novel withdrawal symptom. Or laziness; it would be a little easier to write about characters I already know than to create new ones. And I don’t write genre where a series can be the norm, so I’m not sure I’m up to the logistical challenge. But I have to tell you … asking what if has certainly revived my excitement over writing.

Have any of you done something like this? Does anyone have tips or book recommends, for writing prequels, sequels, or a series?

Photo credit: icanhazcheezburger.com

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Oh, how I miss the fever!

Allow me to wax nostalgic as it nears the second anniversary of my latest novel’s birth. I had written the first one ten years ago, then put it away. In the breach between, I turned to other pursuits and wrote only an occasional short story or poem. I had no plans to write another novel at the beginning of June 2008. Oh, but then … I had a dream.

Soon after waking the next morning, I detailed the dream in an email to a friend. Write it as a story, she said. I did. I felt the first twinge. The story refused to let me go. It poked and prodded and pouted until I produced a companion for it. Then, still not content, they both haunted me. I felt an ache.

The stories wriggled and pushed and shoved until I let them loose. I succumbed to the fever. Through the veil of  my infirmary, I watched the stories consummate their relationship and give birth to a novel, weak and bleating. In my delirium, I heard it whisper tantalizing what ifs.

With glazed-eye madness, I wrote, revised, edited all summer, all fall, all year. I took a dose of critique; repeated every two weeks. I sacrificed meals, showers, sleep for just a few more minutes to write. Finally, after fourteen months, I delivered my book into waiting beta hands. Nope. Not done. Expand, explain, excel. I relapsed and wrote more, all fall, all winter. Edit. Repeat in Spring. Ahhhh.

Now, I wait for a new infection. One that will lay me low with that delicious obsession with character, setting, and story. I am ready. Inoculate me with that live organism. Come on. Do it. Give me that writing bug.

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Sweet Dreams

If you’ve been around this blog awhile, you know I write a lot about dreams. In a sense, my dreams are my purest writing, straight from the subconscious, uncensored. I pay particular attention to mine in times of stress. Sometimes I don’t recognize I am stressed until I see a pattern in my dreams. Like now.

Lately, I’ve had a series of dreams where I’m in one of two situations. I either see words on the paper, but can’t read them or someone is speaking to me solemnly, but I can’t hear them. Last night it was Locke—or was it Smokey—talking to me. (Why yes, that is another LOST reference. :-) ) I felt I was in danger and tried hard to make out what he said. I could hear his voice faintly, but not understand a single word. The frustration woke me. So, this morning, being the ever inquisitive me, I said, “What the heck does this mean?”

Well … duh. Didn’t I read my last blog post? Not only am I momentarily blinded to this novel, I am also deaf to it. I have a great deal of anxiety about it. I am stressed. So, I’m stepping back from it for a little while—are you listening subconscious? I’m not going to wonder how I could have written it better, or what revisions might lie in its future. I’m focusing elsewhere for as long as it takes for me to get centered again.

I might focus on reading, since I’ve started six books in the last month, but not finished any … and not because they aren’t worthy. I might finish a portrait I started a few weeks ago. I might dope myself with allergy meds and see what I can salvage in my flower garden. If words that need to be written come to me, I will write, but I’m not going to force them. I need peaceful dreams for a change.