Dreams of Writing

For a long time, I never remembered any of my dreams. ‘For a long time’ is particular, as I do distinctly recall being a young child, recounting to my Grandmother how I dreamt of a piebald man, trying to bite chunks out of my flesh. Say, 7 or 8 years old.

However, since then, and PD–pre-Depression and its medication (no, this isn’t a coming out, that will be another post ;P And I like to theorise that all literature is a kind of disclosure)–no dreams.

Since being on antidepressants, however, I’ve had many, many dreams. Mainly just the standard of teeth falling out and zombies… so many zombies… and I’ve just figured out what that says about my Freudian development. dammit!

Anyways! As much as I’ve dreamt, there have been very few that have made it from the head to the page. The two that have, however, have been good ones.

The genesis of Bibliotek was one of these, where I was a part of an underground conspiracy to steal books from the rich, and populate public libraries with them (trust me, this is better than when I had dreams of filing ‘consumer protection’ data!) It was very exciting. It also didn’t translate too well to the novel as it has developed, but the idea of a ‘Robin Hood’ librarian is still strong.

The other went begging for a story for a long time, it was a dream of the Black Beach–once again, way more exciting than it sounds! The Beach was an incredibly tall, rather rickety wooden tower I was climbing. So tall, that at the top, you could see the entirety of creation, the immensity of it all flooding in all around in pounding waves of surf. Unfortunately, it was all too big, and on the way down I lost all I’d learnt, only remembering an ache of knowledge.

The Black Beach has found its way into the Story of Lord Geoffrey Grimace, which sits as a very vague draft upon my drive.

Aren’t the gifts of inspiration odd?

And now? My most recent dream of two days ago, was of a very nice bread roll. *Sigh!*

Be seeing you…