Finding the Story in the Dream

 

 

I finally found motivation yesterday! It came in the form of a dream, a dream that involved a man I had a crush on, escaping from his hoodlum associates, and gossiping with women I didn't know. 

 The story I wrote had nothing to do with hoodlums or gossip, but everything to do with crushes and letting them go.  It took interpreting the dream to come up with the connection.

I don't do Gestalt analysis anymore, where you tell the dream from the perspective of every significant person and object in the dream, mostly because that gets very long and dry. I also don't think it's a superior method anymore. Instead, my husband and I reflect together on how each significant scene parallels real life. 

If you are going to do this method, you must be very aware that 1) you are aware of the symbolic aspects of dreams, and 2) many of the aspects of dreams relate to your recent thoughts and experiences. I came across this method of dream analysis when a friend and I noted how my dreams paralleled the events of a full but idyllic day we had spent the day before.

So, this was what came out of the dream: I was looking in on a concert in the next room (crowded, night club) and guy I had a crush on was crowdsurfing right past the window but he wouldn't look at me. Sounds like an unrequited crush to me.

Then, I'm in a room with crush and I start yelling at him about ignoring me. He listens, denies ignoring me, and then nods, and his henchmen (Eastern European bug guys, buzz cuts, dressed in black) start wrestling me. I break away and walk out. Crush has just had a bachelor party; the henchmen are anologous.

After that I break out and end up in a shopping mall. (No idea of what that's symbolic of; I'd say finding another crush but I'm married, so it's not something I'm seeking out although crushes make for great poetry) and run into some women in the bathroom (cleansing oneself?) I gossip about what happened previously.

 So there's the dream, all about releasing a crush. 

The story I wrote? It's about a woman who had a two-week fling with Oberon, king of Faerie; it ended abruptly when she asked to go to Faerie and he had to refuse her. When he returns to take her there thirty years later, she surprises him with her answer.

 Same thing, yet so different. That is the power of a dream. 

Pandora's FedEx Package

I have a mystery box coming to me.

I found this out via a text from FedEx. One package to arrive on this Thursday before 5 PM.  I love packages!

The problem is that I have no pending merchandise orders from anywhere. My husband doesn't have any pending orders from anywhere. And, as far as I know, the cats don't have any pending orders from anywhere.

In examining the FedEx text, I can discern the following: The package originated in Berlin, CT. The shipping path began in Northborough, MA. The package's dimensions are 20x12x4, and it weighs 4.2 lbs. It has been in package jail in Odessa, MO for two days.

What can I deduce? I'm failing. My fantasy life has many guesses: 

• A present from family? (From Berlin, CT? I have no family there.) 
• A marked-up copy of my novel with a book offer? (I'm pretty much sure that's not how it's done.) 
• A package bomb? (By FedEx? Highly unlikely). 
• A sweepstakes prize? ("Here's a grocery sack with our logo!")
• An inheritance from a long-lost relative? ("Here's a grocery sack with a logo!)

I will know soon. It will likely be something I ordered six months ago that I can't remember. But I can dream, can't I?

How I started writing novels

Well, I finally wrote/revised for three and a half hours yesterday, fueled by copious amounts of coffee. I didn't accomplish that much word-wise -- maybe 1500 words at most. But I think I'm getting closer with Gaia's Hands. Lots of work to go, though.

Gaia's Hands is my first novel. It's always been a problem child of a story. When I wrote it, I had no intention of writing a novel. I had written a short story based on a dream I had about an encounter between myself and a younger man. (If you think the dream had to do with the fact I was approaching my 50th birthday, you'd be right. And the dream was far more bizarre than anything I wrote from it.)

I wanted to know more about the dream, so I started doing a Gestalt dream analysis method where one tells the story from the viewpoint of the different characters, and even the important inanimate objects of the story. (I didn't go that far). During this set of writing exercises, a story developed. And then another.

After the third story that developed from the dream, my husband Richard looked at me and said, "You've got all these stories. Why don't you write a novel?"

I had never written a novel before because I think in terms of short stories -- small plots with big twists, big themes. Novels have big twisty plots, and I wasn't sure I knew how to plot those. I wrote Gaia's Hands anyhow. Its original name was Magic and Realism, and it was heavy in theme and extremely light in plot. It was basically a love story, and although I have nothing against love stories, the characters did little more than hang out together.

And then I wrote more novels, some of which collapsed into each other (For example, Magic and Realism became Gaia's Hands, and then it subsumed another novel during the same time period called Gaia's Eyes and that's the novel I'm currently re-editing) and somehow I got better at writing big twisty plots.

It's been a lot of hard work editing and re-editing, and then getting help editing from a developmental editor and re-editing, but I've learned my goal has shifted from getting published to getting good, then getting published. I don't want to grow to regret anything I've published.

I guess now I can call myself not only a writer, but an author, because I have devoted myself to growth. And it literally, cliche notwithstanding, started with a dream.

Day 25 Reflection: Blessings

 Note: I am not usually overly Christian in my writing, being rather universalist in my leanings. But as the topic is blessings, I thought I would write in the dominant American religious view, Christianity, and its struggle with the concept of blessings.
******

I dreamed last night that I was watching a religious TV movie and then I was in it. In the dream, I had checked in to this hotel of sorts, feeling rather down, and I noticed the others in there with me suffered from similar struggles. Being in this place, this boarding house of sorts, elevated us and helped us feel more cherished in the world.

Then I stepped out of the movie for a moment and said to my husband, who watched the movie with me (at a bed-and-breakfast, incidentally) "Watch what happens" in the most cynical tone of voice.

When I returned to the movie, one of the people running the establishment had added a month's supply of some sort of supplement to my bill. And then the other residents started objecting to the new residents who had come in -- from what a sputtering man said, his children should not be exposed to what he called "girly-boys". 

In a state of being blessed, we too often ask God to bless people like ourselves, not who we see as our enemies. We'd prefer it if God smote our enemies, like He did in the Old Testament. After all, they're evil. They're our enemies. We are the chosen ones, after all. We are Christian.

Actually, that's not Christian. We are supposed to have evolved from that when Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount and when He gave his one Commandmant: Love your God above all and your brother as yourself -- and note that he specifically gave an example of the Other -- the despised Samaritans -- as our brother. 

If you are blessed, bless others. Bless those not like you. Bless your enemies. Blessings are not an economic good -- that is, there is no finite amount of blessings such that blessings to your enemies or strangers detract from yours. It may be that your blessings to others soften their hearts or soften yours.

 At the very least, blessing your enemies takes away the constant tension of hating your enemies and wishing them bad. You will find that a blessing.

Day 6 Reflection Part 2: My struggle

I may be moving away from writing. Or at least writing novels.

I just haven't felt it lately. The thrill of writing hasn't been there since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains in December. I haven't started a novel since then; now I have struggled with proofreading/editing the last of my backlog of novels before developmental edit. 

 

The fantasy of getting published has pretty much died. I don't know if the average of 250 readers per self-published novel is worth $500 in developmental edit fees and sixty to 100 extra hours of work per novel. I don't know if I could even get that many readers.  I'm wary of the pitfalls the vulnerable writer can fall into: vanity presses and publishing mills, and will not consider those as choices.

The thing that really worries me is that, when I say "I could quit," I often don't feel a thing. No cheer, no relief, no regret, almost like I hadn't spent five years, countless hours, $2000 and an investment of identity into writing novels and trying to get published.

 

I don't feel bad about quitting until I write this out: I might quit my quest to be published. When I say that, I feel the death rattle of a dream, but at the same time I wonder if that dream of being published, being read is unreasonable, unworkable, pie-in-the-sky. I wonder if there are more reasonable things to dream about.

This is my struggle. Pray for me, or wish me luck, or whatever you feel moved to do.

Day 4 Reflection: Dreams

It's hard to write about dreams these days without sounding trite. Whether dreaming big or following one's dreams, it's been said before. 

I want to talk about dreams as the cauldron of our subconscious, where our minds process the bits and pieces of our day into scenarios that twist through our sleep. Luxurious scapes, clandestine relationships, twisted corridors with monsters from our id, these are the denizens of our sleeping hours.

When we dream, sometimes we wake with decadent stretches and a purr, a grin on our face. Other times we sit bolt upright in bed clutching our blankets. Throughout the day, we revisit the dream, mulling it over in our head trying to find meaning in it, to use it to inform our day or to banish the tendrils of nightmare.

Or to harness its power in a story. Many years ago, I suffered through a kidney infection for a few days, spending much of the time asleep. I spent the time in dreams -- in one long dream that passed for hours, where I found myself in a desert commune after the experiment called the United States had crumbled into city-states. The contrast between the strife outside and the people who pledged to peace, and the hope that peace lent to those the peaceful folk encountered, stayed with me when I woke, as did the relationship between myself as protagonist and a member of the commune.

I wrote what I could remember, the bare bones of a couple scenes, too long for a short story and too sketchy for a novel. I didn't write novels back then, feeling overwhelmed by all the words needed.

This spring, after four or five novels under my belt, I revisited that dream with all its dread and promise. I was ready for the dream, for its message, for all its words. 

The book, some seventy-thousand words long, waits for its developmental edit. Sometimes we manifest dreams into reality, one way or another.

Hope Springs Eternal or, Sisyphus Was an Optimist

Hope springs eternal.

I sent a query off to DAW Books, one of those other Big 5 publisher imprints that don't require an agent. If my history with Prodigies is any indication, I should hear nothing from them in 6-8 weeks (they don't send rejections if I understand correctly) and be done with it.

Why do I do it, even though my chances of being chosen for publication are small?

Because if I don't do it, I'll never know.

Because I'm the sort of person who tries, even if I fail.

Because I like to make things happen.

Because I'm an eternal optimist.

Because I think my writing deserves to be read.

Because I don't want to be the one that gave up too soon on a dream.

Dream or Let Go?

Sometimes I still dream of success.

To me, success in writing looks like:

1. Finding an agent
2. Getting a publishing contract
3. Having a readership and modest sales
4. Interacting with others on my blog

Given that I haven't achieved the first yet, and given that the other goals are probably dependent on that first goal. I don't know if I'm ever going to get there.

This is why I'm considering self-publishing, but I have so many questions about it, such as:

1. If you self-publish, will people always put a figurative asterisk by the word "author" after your name?
2. How do you get the word out about your novel?
3. If my novel doesn't get accepted by agents, is there really a chance that readers will gravitate to it in self-published format?
4. Can one get famous (ok, somewhat well-known) self-publishing?
5. Will I have to spend all my time promoting my book instead of writing?

These questions may be proof that I'm still dreaming and doing a lot of assuming. I'm assuming that my books are good enough to find a following rather than languishing on a virtual shelf somewhere, which is a lot to assume even if I get traditionally published.

My affirmation cards keep saying that I have great ideas, the time is not right, let go of expectations, to the point that the same cards keep showing up in readings.

Our American society says that we should hold on to our dreams. Buddhism, on the other hand, suggests attachment -- even to a dream -- causes unhappiness. Which shall I do -- hold on or let go?

Old song today

There is music that goes with this:

Turn the corner
to a street beyond a map,
walk much further
till our feet forget the path.
We have walked here,
but only in our dreams;
then we wake up
never knowing what it means

Turn the handle,
slide back the creaking door
as I wonder
if you've been here before.
Weathered iron
is rusting in its sleep
as we sit here
in the silence that we keep

In the morning
if the snow has turned to gold
does it matter
in a story never told (2x)

Turn the corner
to a street beyond a map,
walk much further
till our feet forget the path.
We have walked here,
but only in our dreams;
then we wake up
never knowing what it means

In the morning
if the snow has turned to gold
does it matter
in a story never told (4x and fade)

Tiny thought

In my heaven, we would all understand there are different types of love, and we would define ourselves in terms of how much we could love. We would understand different types of love enough that we wouldn't try to make everything romantic, and we would not get jealous because we would respect boundaries. But love would be there, and we would be allowed it.

Dream sequences

I love writing dream sequences. They allow me to write abstract sequences that nonetheless hint to future developments of the plot.

My idea here is that we do a lot of subconscious processing when we dream. One theory of dreams, which does not sit well with non-scientists, is that the objects and happenings in our dreams are processed and reviewed to put into long-term storage. If your newfound Aunt Martha reminds you of your long-departed Aunt Mary, you're as likely to dream of Martha as Mary that night, because your short-term memory connects Martha and Mary. The next morning, you think to yourself, "Oh, that's why I felt the presence of a ghost -- Aunt Martha reminds me of my dearly departed Aunt Mary!" often without remembering the dream.

Non-scientists like to believe that dreams are ripe for interpretation. Freudians have set symbols they look for in dreams, focusing on the Freudian hallmarks, the urges and taboos we sublimate to be acceptable adults: sex, defecation, and death. An interesting situation in Freudian interpretation: dreaming of turning on a faucet symbolizes sex.  Dreaming of having sex with someone does not. Many dream interpretation books on the market are at least semi-Freudian in their interpretations.

Meanwhile, Jungian interpretation focuses on the people in your dream, and how they resemble the archetypes that feature heavily in our stories and deeper psyche. So the Jungian dream would look at the animus (your darker self), mentors, quests -- in other words, Jung puts your dream through a Star Wars filter.

Others' take on dreams is that they give messages -- not only the result of subconscious processing above, but prosaic messages from the outside that the brain connects -- much like the scientific theory above -- but precognitive messages, messages from mystical connections, messages from others alive or dead, messages from our most inner self.  Even though this sounds like mental illness, we all know people we call superstitious that have these beliefs. The person who dreams of deceased Aunt Mary believes that anything Mary said or did in the dream is a direct message. They may believe that they themselves are the next family member slated to die.  A common belief is that cardinals carry messages from the dead, so someone might dream of a cardinal instead of Aunt Mary.

When I write about dreams, they have elements of subconscious processing of mysteries with a touch of the mystical -- but just a light touch. Generally, a series of seemingly unrelated data come together through subconscious reasoning -- but still may not be interpretable to the dreamer because of the need to disbelieve. At the end, I introduce the mystical finger pointing to a future revelation. That's just how I do it, and I'm sure the Freudians and Jungians disagree.

I wrote a dream last night and I'm really proud of it. I may show it to you later.

**********
This morning I start at 32,000 words, give or take a couple. My goal is to be finished by Friday, which gets me to the 50,000 goal 14 days ahead of time. I will continue writing, except at a slower pace, and I will have a writers' retreat (with massage! And sauna and steam bath and hot tub oh my!) at The Elms in Excelsior Springs for Thanksgiving with Richard!

Love you all.

Big Audacious Goal reached for today.

Officially at 13,000 words (give or take a few!) One quarter of the way through!

*******

Afterward, I dreamed that my dad yelled that I had written the story all wrong and that the aftermath of the collapse on Duluth, MN would look nothing like I'd written it. I fled to the bathroom, and tried to put makeup on for some high school banquet I was about to be late for. I had put on skin correctors of different colors for different parts of my face, except they were glossy and glittery in patriotic red and blue and would not smooth in.

I walked into my room, and clicked the mouse on my computer, reading the notes I had taken when I interviewed a Texas secessionist for my story. I remembered standing on the loading dock as he stood there, semiautomatic rifle slung across his back, explaining that the patriots needed to get the country back from the foreigners. I wrote down the words, sickened.

I tried to dress as quickly as possible, sensing that I would never arrive at the banquet that I would be honored at.

I woke up, reminding myself that the words are important and wondering if I was ever going to get them out in an order that would compel people to read them.

Interrogating the Dream

I get my ideas for writing from my dreams (I'm pretty sure I've already told you that). This post regards the first book I wrote and the dream that first tripped me into writing. 

The writing I post today is not the dream itself. I will not post the actual dream, because it, like many dreams, concerns a lodge frozen in the 70's and run by Mennonites, an underground world with the white plastic walls of a gas station bathroom, and random sex with a stranger. 

I couldn't get the dream out of my head (blame middle age) so I decided to analyze it, beginning with a Gestalt method -- "Talk about the dream from the viewpoint of the mint green Formica countertop" etc Then I switched to interrogating the dream by asking questions of the characters: "Who are you and why did you get involved with this? What did you feel at the time? What would you like me to know about you?"

This process resulted in a snippet of dialogue. Note that this dialogue didn't make it into the book (It's a little too dreamy) but a book grew out of the relationship these two characters have. The book is not romance, and has only oblique references to sex. But here's a snippet of my creative process, "Interrogating the Dream":

*****

Josh dreamed that night. The scene was a battered wooden stage made up as a living room with a beige couch, a side table cluttered with books, and an easy chair. Jeanne sat on the chair; the lights were set relatively low to simulate a relaxing evening. The mood, however, was anything but relaxed.  The dream unfolded, a disturbing play starring him and Jeanne. When he woke up, he pulled out his ever-present notebook, and transcribed the dream as a script:

A SIMPLE, BUT COMFORTABLE LIVING ROOM. THE FURNITURE IS A COUCH WITH A SIDE TABLE AND AN EASY CHAIR.

Jeanne sits on the couch, leaning forward, holding a piece of paper. She wears a black sweater and wears her hair down.

                                     JOSH (VOICEOVER)

I'm sorry. I'm afraid I hurt you.

                                     JEANNE

It's okay. I just feel strange about it.

                                     JOSH (V.O.)

I think I took away your choice.

                                     JEANNE

No. I could have stopped you. I don't know why I didn't.

                                     JOSH (V.O.)

I don't know why I did it. I was sleepwalking. I was hungry.

                                     JEANNE

This scares me. It's too dark.

                                     JOSH (V.O.)

I want to bring this into the light. I'll find you.

Josh walks onto the stage. He wears a red shirt with the Chinese symbol "ai" and jeans. He sits on the couch, Jeanne stands up and begins to pace, stopping to turn to him when she delivers her lines.

                                    JEANNE

How old are you?

                                    JOSH

I'm 20.

                                   JEANNE

That worries me. You're fragile.

                                   JOSH

Why do you say that?

                                  JEANNE

You're so young.

                                   JOSH

I'm young. I'm short.  I've had to develop more strength than most. Remember who asked to bring this into the light.

                                  JEANNE

Why leave me a note when you were right outside?

                                  JOSH

Strangely, words have more power when you have to read them.

                                 JEANNE

How so?

                                 JOSH

I say words and they're ephemeral. They only stay as long as your memory lets them. I write them, and they're there for you to reread.

                                JEANNE

What if I throw away the paper?

                                JOSH

Your conscience remembers why you threw away the paper. The words remain.

Jeanne stops pacing and faces him on the couch.

                               JEANNE

Let's bring this into the light.

                               JOSH

Okay. Let's do it.

                              JEANNE

Why did you -- I don't understand what happened.

                               JOSH

I know. I thought I was dreaming. Until the end. This is not how I wanted my first time to be. I wanted my first time to be slower. I wanted to freeze time; I wanted to register every pressure, every breath. I wanted to see your face.

Jeanne sits on the couch next to Josh.

                             JEANNE

Some first times are ludicrous, some are hurried, some are drunken, and some are rape.

                             JOSH

What was your first time like?

                            JEANNE

Mine was rape.

                             JOSH

How could someone --

                            JEANNE

Two someones. I was thirteen. It's long past.

                            JOSH

Oh my God. I'm sorry.

                           JEANNE

I shouldn't have told you.

                           JOSH

Why not?

                          JEANNE

You're so damn young.

                          JOSH

I'm not so sure of that. I think you're younger than me sometimes, inside. And maybe I'm ancient, like a tree. And maybe sometimes I can give shelter.

Jeanne turns away.

                         JEANNE

I can't accept your offer. You're too damn young.

Jeanne stands and turns to Josh.

                        JEANNE

What do you want from me?

                        JOSH

I want you to accept me for who I am.

                       JEANNE

So who are you?

                        JOSH

I was quiet and easily overlooked. I fell in love with my anger, fell into darkness. Until I watched a storm -- I saw lightning split a tree. I realized I was the tree as well as the storm. I had to ask myself what the tree needed.

                      JEANNE

What did the tree need?

                      JOSH

To be allowed to be.

Jeanne walks across the stage and addresses the audience.

                    JEANNE

It's all backwards. We should have gotten the chance to say "this is who I am" first.

Josh stands and walks toward her.

                     JOSH

Would you have even looked at me?

Jeanne turns to face him.

                    JEANNE

That's the hardest thing you've asked.

                    JOSH

Why?

                   JEANNE

Oh my God. You don't understand. You're beautiful. I can hardly take my eyes off you. And I'm older, and I've lived more. I have all the power here. I touch you, and I'll overwhelm you. I'll stunt your growth, you'll end up gnarled and twisted.

                   JOSH

You describe yourself as the Wicked Witch in this tale.

                   JEANNE

Well?

                   JOSH

What if I came up to you and introduced myself? Isn't there power in that? And what if I started the conversation?

Jeanne turns away.

                  JEANNE

That's not what I'm scared of.

Josh puts his hands on Jeanne's shoulders to get her to look at him

                   JOSH

What if I said you were beautiful?

                  JEANNE

 I would probably cry.

                  JOSH

What if I kissed your tears --

                 JEANNE

You shouldn't –

                  JOSH

Why not?

                  JEANNE

Because then I might fall a little in love with you.

                   JOSH

And then I'd be powerless?

Jeanne walks away from Josh a few steps to break the contact and turns to face him.

                  JEANNE

Do you accept me for who I am?

                  JOSH

Who are you?

                  JEANNE

I'm 50 years old, I'm fat. I laugh too loud.

                   JOSH

That's just your skin. That isn't all of you.

                  JEANNE

I laugh a lot. I have to watch what I say sometimes.

                   JOSH

Go deeper.

                  JEANNE

I fall in love all the time. I don’t weigh the consequences of words. I fight a fatal attraction to people's darkness. I'm the strongest person I know.

                  JOSH

But who are you?

                  JEANNE

I am a child who talks to birds.

Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne.

                  JEANNE

Why did you?

                   JOSH

I was hungry for touch. Did I hurt you?

                  JEANNE

No, you were surprisingly ... gentle.

                   JOSH

Good. I don't think I could stand it if I wasn't. But -- why did you?

                   JEANNE

I guess I wanted to be wanted. Not a good reason, I know. It's dangerous -- I give away all my power to the person who pays attention. Over and over again I replay my childhood, hoping that for once it ends differently.

                   JOSH

I guess I do the same thing. 'Notice me, I'm not insignificant.'

                  JEANNE

No, you are not insignificant. I don't know how anyone could make that mistake.

                  JOSH

But they do. To be a man, you're supposed to be tall, built, substantial. People look over my head to look for men.

                  JEANNE

Maybe they don't know how to recognize a man.

                  JOSH

Maybe they don't know how to recognize beauty, either.

Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne; they face each other, putting their hands on each other's shoulders. 

(Pause) What if I said you were beautiful?

                 JEANNE

I would probably cry.

                 JOSH

What if I kissed your tears --

                JEANNE

I might fall a little in love with you.

                JOSH

Accept me for who I am. I am the tree and the storm.

               JEANNE

I am the strongest person I know, a child who talks to birds.

               JOSH

I am not insignificant. Don’t overlook me.

              JEANNE

Choosing from strength, it ends differently

               JOSH

I want to freeze time, I want to register every pressure, every breath. I want to see your face.

Josh and Jeanne embrace, and the curtain falls.