You know how in Inception you can walk around in other people’s dreams? I love that idea to pieces. I want to get inside everybody’s heads. But I don’t want you in my mine.
It’s not — well, yes, okay, it’s partly that I don’t want you to see what goes on in my head. But the smallest part of that is whatever secrets you’re imagining.
I’m afraid of sharing my dreams because I’m a writer. And as a writer I’m a sadist. My dreams would not be fun to be caught inside.
They’re not nightmares. Nightmares are products of your fears, your anxieties, playing out your worries on a tired mind. I dream. But the world, the people, the story… they come from the same place, the same creative instinct that makes me write. And the same sadistic part of my mind that tortures all my characters follows there too.
Sometimes the story my mind weaves in my sleep is adventure, sometimes it’s romance, comedy, thriller, horror. Any genre, any style, beyond structure, beyond walls. Confined by no realism but that of emotion.
In the dream, what I touch, taste, smell, see, hear is real. What I feel most especially is real.
I have woken crying. I’ve woken suppressing screams. I’ve rolled off the couch and fought the urge to vomit at the horror of what I’d seen. I have been more terrified than I ever have in waking life.
And when I say I’m not sure anyone else really wants to be a part of that, it’s not because I’m afraid of what they’ll learn about my mind. It’s because I’m afraid of what I’ll introduce into theirs.