One More Silver Lining

For the past two weeks I’ve been dealing with pneumonia and its many twists and turns. Antibiotics make me sleepy, among other things, and this time being sleepy didn’t help matters since coughing and shortness of breath were my main symptoms.

I don’t tell you this for sympathy but, rather, to set the stage for what comes next. If you’ve ever had a respiratory infection or pneumonia to any degree, you know that sleeping on the horizontal isn’t going to happen. The lungs won’t allow for it. Throw in a slight sinus infection, and you’ll really not sleep much.

So, there I was, not sleeping in an upright and locked position, cradled on the corner of my bed, back against three pillows, one of which actually did hold my head up and allow me to turn it from side to side.

While I sat there for hours in the darkness, not sleeping but wallowing in that twilight state of antibiotic-drugged drowsiness, my mind was free to run wild, without destination, purpose, or forethought. The hors d'oeuvres of primitive thought kept floating in front of the mind’s eye, offering up delicacies of unlimited scope in the creative sense.

Entire novels rolled by, pulled onward down an ever-lengthening road by a team of amusing characters that were fit to assemble into something miraculous if I could just hold onto them to write down enough during the day to remember them. Unfortunately, such was not the case. They drove away on their wagonload of plotline and interesting twists before I could fully grasp enough details to hang onto the storyline.

Dragged behind that wagon came another book; I called it “The Book of Notions.” This one stuck with me and expanded with each new consideration. A vision flashed across my inner movie screen; a man dressed in period costume—late nineteenth century—carrying  under one arm a large book, bound in black, thin and mysterious. The title, embossed in gold, was “The Book of Notions.” I never saw the man’s face. It didn’t matter. The title stuck in my mind.

Now I had something to hold onto. Substance couldn’t be too far away. Suddenly that great little story that I’d just written for a competition took on a whole new meaning. It was the first of the “Notions” and would anchor all of the rest. There would be between 15 and 20 Notion stories and they would use the same narrator and all would be slightly quirky, sad or amazing, funny or chilling. I could see the entire project; a project I could do over time and look for just the right subjects to fill the book.

The whole project resided within that black binding with gold lettering. I knew where I’d look for the stories. I knew the approach I would take. I knew it would work.

It isn’t often when I come across something like this that has such a feel of rightness to it. I always hang onto those with both hands, and they’re always worthwhile. And it isn’t as if I don’t have enough projects already on my plate. I have five that I’m working on now. This one, though, is one that haunts, but in a good way; a way that forces me to keep it in mind, forces me to keep thinking about what the stories will be. I won’t neglect this one for long between story installments.

Perhaps this is a true example of inspiration. Perhaps it’s only an example of hallucinations and fevered dreams. Either way, I have a long-term project that will hold my interest in easy installments and that’s something worthwhile.

Here’s hoping that all of you are so fortunate to find a silver lining for yourself. Until later,

Claudsy

Mental Movies and the Things Dreams Are Made Of

Since returning from our trip, I’ve found myself in a wonderfully interesting place in my head. Once I actually got accustomed to sleeping for longer snatches of time, my find began filling in the space between my ears with a large movie screen. Each night I get to sit in the front row and partake of the movie of the night.

I’m never disappointed, though there have been mornings when I remember the movie selection from the night before and wonder at the creativity involved.  I’ve been on battlegrounds, along shorelines watching for ships to approach. I’ve gone on hunts on horseback amid a group of obviously experienced huntsmen. I’ve found treasure and lost loved ones. I’ve sat at table with my grandmother presiding and talked with my family, reminiscing and thoroughly enjoying myself.

It’s been a grand time of movie watching. Last night’s triple header was a real winner. A war fantasy about a Middle Eastern Princedom and the military coup that puts an insane teenager on the throne that makes things far worse than they were before began the night. Navy S.E.A.L.s and native rebels were in pitched battle while a young native woman was trying to secure her family and hold onto a method of communicating with the outside world. Secret rooms held whispered conversations among rebels. Revolting acts of brutality marred every turn of the rebels escape route. In the end, the good guys did win their freedom, but at a terrible cost.

The second feature was a light-hearted comedy starring BJ and two enamored middle-aged men who were both determined to help her with her photography. The piece got really interesting when I informed them of her ever-present phobia of heights while they readied a cherry-picker to get her high enough to take aerial photos of a particular landscape. The resulting activity had me in stitches as I watched their antics and BJ’s response to them. This, too, ended happily for all.

The last film was probably the best of the night. Jim Belushi starred in a comedy about marriage, boredom, and a wife’s determination that it turn out in her favor. I rolled through that one, mental popcorn in hand and anticipation in mind.

I woke laughing.

This is the kind of thing that’s been going on in my dream life since moving into this apartment.

I can look at those three mental flicks from last night and figure out the triggers for them. I read an article yesterday about trouble in Syria and the heavy negative response to the torture and killing of a 13 year old boy. That made for the first film of war. The scenario that followed the beginning of the dream seems a natural outcropping of that story.

The second film undoubtedly came from an incident that took place here last evening. Details aren’t important, but the trigger makes perfect sense for me.

That last dream film was probably an offshoot of the second as far as characters was concerned. My mind evidently needed the comic relief from yesterday’s frustrations. The almost slap-stick quality to it filled the bill nicely.

My question after all of this is “Do you watch full-blown mental movies in your sleep and do you know where they came from?” Another question for the writers out there is “Do you ever use these dream films for stories that you write and submit?”

On top of that question is one other about us as writers. Do we dream differently, more completely, than those who don’t write? We’re always looking for interesting bits of news to pin a story on. We scour reality, news stories, and even commercials looking for characters to sprinkle in those stories to make them unique and memorable.

How big a part do our dreams play in our creative life on paper once we’re awake?

Help me answer this question. Do you use your dreams or parts of them to write stories? Let me know by dropping an answer in a comment and leaving it behind.

Until later,

Claudsy

A Sighing Do-over

In that pre-dawn hour, just after the early morning bathroom run and crawling back into bed, comes a time when Muse takes her dipper of brilliance and sprinkles profound and inspired thoughts through the near-slumbering mind. The mind pursues these wisps of creative wonder along pathways destined to come to naught.  Sleep again overtakes thought, and morning finds only hints of earlier mental journeys.

Why do so many of us never learn from our frustration? Why can’t we allow ourselves to get out of bed and use that hour to write down all of those magnificent ideas and ponderings? It’s not as if we’re going to forget that we had them; we only forget what “they” were about.

This morning I had half an essay written in my head—a nice lyrical piece on this subject. When I woke, it was all gone, except for the initial idea for the piece. Frustration, directed at myself, ensued.

Dr. Wayne Dyer postulates that when a person wakes for unknown reasons early in the morning, it is due to higher powers speaking to the sleeper. Dr. Dyer never identifies the higher power but allows the individual to make a personal interpretation of the term. He goes on to say that the best and most inspired writing, painting, or whatever creative outlet the person uses, comes during that time just after the pre-dawn wake-up call.

I must agree with him, for that is when my mind is the most free from daily concerns, sees the world in the least cluttered way, and has the most fluid writing ability. I agree and would like to accommodate that axiom of taking that free-thought time for writing.

The problem is that sleep tempts me too well. There is always a dream to finish so that I have an ending to that particular storyline. Or, I didn’t get into bed until the wee hours of the night and haven’t had enough sleep to keep me awake to do more than make that bathroom run.

Sleep and its many guises will become an issue again after tonight. BJ and I are beginning the last leg of our tour just after dawn tomorrow. Neither of us sleeps well nor long while on the road. We’ve learned all about that already.

There will be many very early mornings in the coming month, some far earlier than we’d wish. My wish is that with all the new sights and adventures, inspiration will become more delegated to regular working hours and not to those frequently interrupted ones devoted to sleep. There are times when only a sigh and a do-over will suffice.

One question haunts me sometimes. I wonder how many Pulitzers, Nobel’s, Oscars, etc. have been left at Muse’s doorstep because the sleeper couldn’t be bothered to write down the words on the calling card?

Until later,

Claudsy