I’m used to having bizarre dreams – I have an overactive imagination, and it gets worse when I haven’t written in a while (the Beast doesn’t like being ignored), though this is hardly the case as of late.
But last night, my insecurities were the star of the show. The setting was one I’m familiar with somewhat: a busy town square, nearing dusk, shoppers and pedestrians milling about. I don’t know what it is about this scene that it keep reappearing in my dreams. The more that I tried to concentrate on the people around me, the more of them that turned into people on my Twitter.
NOTE: A very strong indication that I’ve spent too much time there recently, especially if it is now invading my dreams. Another vice, crutch, addiction – whatever you call it – will have to go.
Anyways, I digress. The Twitter people weren’t what caught me off guard. Real people always show up in my dreams, whether they make sense or not.
In this dream, there were towers on the edges of the squares. Your typical dark, foreboding medieval towers, complete with turrets and moss growing up the sides. In one of these towers (it was one on the right, not sure if that can be interpreted as something), a writer was confined in order to complete The Great Novel. This writer I’m familiar with and have spoken to on Twitter, but why this particular writer, I’m not sure. Maybe all the exposure I’ve had to his work lately?
Time is always off when it comes to dream scape, naturally. They are just movies made from memories playing in our heads after all. But I could swear said writer was only up there for 5 minutes before being released. When I inquired how the progress was coming, he just flipped his gorgeous hair away from his face. “All done. I’m working on another project now.” As if it was the easiest thing to do in the world, while I was left standing there gaping, my resolve to keep writing kind of teetering.
Now I’m not as naive as some would have you believe. I understand that there is no such thing as The Great Novel. I also understand that writing a novel, any novel requires effort and skill. I’m not trying to write The Great Novel. At this time in my life, I am and will be perfectly happy just to finish the rough draft I’m working on now. If I can get the final copy completed before New Years, that will be one hell of a success for me. Who gives a crap if it gets published? The fact that I’m writing again after so many years and my former muse Tyrone running off with that damn homeless man…..
I can only hope that since I recognize this as my subconscious being a bastard and trying to deter me from what I want to do – answer the call, give in to the drive, feed my desire to write – I can ward off the self destruction. I refuse to let one irrational dream stop that. It may not be good, but its something.
So I wrote this silly little post just to write, and have added about 50 more blogs/articles on writing to my reading cue. Here’s to finishing the rough draft!
M
No Method, Only Madness 