Dreams and writing
Ever have one of those dreams where it’s so real you can feel the bed under you, the colors on the wall are vivid, and the first question on your mind is, “How am I going to pay for this?”
The usual 5:30 wake-up claw kneading the neck woke me from such a dream.
I was in a bed so perfect I didn’t want to move, sleeping under the soft, warm white comforter. Wish I knew who was sleeping next to me. As dreams usually do, they present a concept like “husband” (an everyman sort of non-descript) and you accept the fact that the guy next to you is just that. If you’re into erotica I warn you–nothing happened. We were just sleeping in the same bed.
I awoke to look out over a lightly lapping lake glistening in the sun and a view of hills on the other side of it.
“All alone,” I thought, sighing with pleasure.
Then, that question…that awful question that won’t let you enjoy the here and now.
“Why am I here?” If you need a translation, it comes out to roughly “Where the hell am I and what am I doing in a place like this?”
So I started to explore each elegantly appointed room of the house, all with eggshell white walls. I don’t remember seeing a kitchen or dining room, only bedrooms.
Lots and lots of bedrooms.
The window from my east bedroom might’ve looked out over the serenity of nature, but the windows to the north side of the house showed a series of townhouses on a hill. Not something you’d generally find next to a mansion, but upper-middle class and not anything to worry about.
The window on the west side of the house showed apartments filled with people I wouldn’t want to have living next to me. It had nothing to do with race, color or creed. In fact, it’s not the color size or sex I remember but the jealous eyes staring toward the mansion.
Oddly, the bedrooms on the south side of the house had no windows at all, but had 2 twin beds with the same thick-soft white comforters and a child-sized bed in them. It looked like something out of a Victorian novel.
The next thought on my mind is one that any woman over 40 who has just awakened in a strange place is going to ask, “Where’s the bathroom?”
That began a desperate search in a house that seemed to grow in size. I found a doorway to a huge supply closet with a urinal at the back and a man standing in front of it. I don’t remember that particular conversation, just the gist of it, a deadly serious, “Mine.”
So I tried again. This time my “dream” husband mysteriously appeared next to me, talking at me about buying the place with another couple. Somehow, the idea of buying a mansion across from a ghetto screamed, “steal from me” and the thought of buying it with a man who stood by a urinal screaming “MINE” didn’t seem the best of choices.
Nothing left to do but go back to the perfect bedroom and pack.
Have you ever been in a soundproof booth for a hearing test? If so, imagine looking out your bedroom window at the pristine sight of a lake and a lush forest in the background, then opening the door leading to the lake and being assaulted by the sounds of traffic and the odor of petroleum products. Yes, the bedrooms on the south side didn’t have windows for a reason. They faced an LA freeway sized automotive artery.
The next thing I know, I’m in a car traveling away from a sound-proofed mansion and sighing my relief.
All of my books start out as dreams.
It took 15 minutes for me to write 542 words. For NaNoWriMo, I’ve written an average of 3000 words a day. It’s not such a stretch of the imagination to understand why I’m able to do this.
I can’t NOT write.
Editing? That’s another story.