Another Book Dream
I was sitting somewhere, familiar to me in the dream, but unfamiliar to me in real life. Several acquaintances came up and chatted with me. On a white wall to my left were six pieces of art. One woman asked, “What are those.”
I explained that they were books in progress with a smile, that needed to be finished. She selected one, took it down, and started flipping through it. Suddenly she started. “That character has my name.”
Yes, I acknowledged. “You were in mind when I named the character.”
She continued through the pages. “I like this. You should finish it.”
I nodded. “That’s the plan.”
She passed the piece to another person who asked for it. The second person went through it and said, “I like this, too.”
She handed it to me. I flipped it open and began going through it, then stopped. “I know how this ends. It just came to me.”
Both stared at me. “It just came to you?” one asked. “Just like that?”
“Yes. I’m going to finish this now.”
I spent the rest of the dream writing and rewriting that book. It took some weird turns. At one point, I stopped to watch golfers. Green, brown, and orange golf balls were in use, and they were playing on a mountain, hitting the balls down toward greens in valleys far below. After one teed off, the watching gallery emitted a long and low moan of appreciation and then began hitting golf balls down into the valley.
“What are they doing?” a woman seated with me asked.
I smiled. “They’re hitting golf balls down. I think they’re supposed to help locate the original ball.”
“How?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
I went back to work on the book. Sometimes as I worked on it, the print on the page was purple. Other times, the pages flared in bright purple. Yes, purple prose came to me in the dream, to giggles.
By the dream’s end, the novel was finished. I awoke very satisfied.
The Writing Moment
I’m still working on a novel. Finished one earlier this year and edit and revise it when free time gestures, do it. Meanwhile, I’m writing another. Thought I’d have it finished by September’s middle. Did. Not. Happen. I wrote an ending but it didn’t work. Yet it did work.
Why it didn’t work… Well, it wasn’t satisfying. None of the characters liked it. Especially the protagonist. You wouldn’t believe her reaction. The Writing Neurons were also pissed by the ending, and also let me know.
Hush, hush, I told them all. That was just the climax. Now I’ll write a denouement and all will be well. You’ll see.
Snorting, the Writing Neurons muttered, “Bullshit.” The Muses were more restrained, expressing their WTF doubts with a smirk.
Ignoring them, I pressed on. That’s when I realized why the ending did work. It did work because I had to get it out of me. It also worked because I saw that I was aiming toward the end of one story line, involving the main person, but there was a larger story line that needed an ending. I’d become so focused on my main person, I overlooked that other story line.
When I wrote that ending for the story, I killed one trending direction. Doing so freed the character to take over. Completely unaware of where I was going, like trying to find the bathroom in an unfamiliar, pitch-black house, every new paragraph was a challenge. I often rewrote paragraphs several times, trying to figure out what they meant. Is that how novel writing is supposed to go? I actually think so.
Now, I think I see the real ending. I don’t say that too loudly. Don’t want to piss off the protagonist, Muses, and Writing Neurons. It’s hard enough keeping them all in line and moving in the same direction. Like herding angry feral cats.
Got my coffee and a table. Got my ‘puter. Time to continue writing like crazy, at least one more time.
Michael Seidel, writer 