Six o’clock already, I was just in the middle of a dream
Now before eyebrows start reaching for the stars (sorry to any- particularly my friend afe smith – who couldn’t get that song out of their head after last week’s epistle) I will start by reassuring anyone who is curious that I was NOT in any way, and have NEVER at any time been interested in kissing Valentino. By a crystal-blue Italian stream or not. Now, Sophia Loren or Joanna Lumley and an Italian stream, well how fast can I get to the Rubicon? In my dreams, obviously. I digress.
This week I’m musing about our dreams. You see I get a lot of plot lines and characters appearing in my dreams. In fact after I’d started writing this I heard that more money was winging its way in my direction after one of my dreams scored second place in a Flash Fiction prize run by an enterprising new publisher, Grimbold Books. And that was the 500 word version. The full 1500 word story, written in half an hour after waking up, is quite disturbing.
My ex, amongst other habits that are not germane to this issue, employed a dreamcatcher. When we parted my dreams slowly started filtering back into my head and by and large I’m quite grateful for this. My dreams have solved plotting issues: have given me some new and quite wonderful characters : have generated whole short stories, two of which have subsequently turned into books and another is awaiting the same treatment : have given me now two prize winning pieces of Flash Fiction. I do not speculate on where the dreams come from in case by analysing them they cease to arrive. Nor are they regular. In fact they treat timetables and deadlines with the same distain as our beloved railway companies. Perhaps I should be grateful that, unlike the buses, they rarely arrive in a convoy.
Like our traffic police, they also have a habit of arriving unannounced and when least wanted, so my bed now also has a large notepad, a Dictaphone recorder and my moleskine. And several pencils. Just as well it contains no one beside me, there wouldn’t be any room on those occasions I try and stimulate suitable dreams (shut up, Caro!) by adding my ringbinder with all the notes on the current WIP to the pile.
Anyway, I am coming to a conviction that some of my best work actually takes place when I’m asleep. (Look, if you are going to keep heckling me like that, I’ll shut up.) perhaps that’s when all my conscious inhibitions and suppressors have faded, and the little voice saying – Oh come on, you aren’t really going to crack that joke – you’ll never get away with that without being lynched – is temporarily silenced. In fact I could consider sleeping as a primary writing function now that I come to think of it. How perfect is that? I can now argue that my working week contains considerably more hours than previously planned. Writing the fantasy, indeed…
Now if you’ll excuse me, the deadline for Have Frog Will Travel (The Banned Underground #6) is getting closer. So I’m going back to bed.
to sleep perchance to dream. The Rubicon. Knowing my luck, I’m more likely to get Caesar and ten thousand hairy, sweaty and ill tempered legionaries than Sophia Loren, but there’s always hope