Henri Rousseau, “The Dream” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Everything made sense while I was in the dream; nothing felt especially out-of-place, but when I woke up, the memory of something so polar opposite to my waking life felt jarring. Incongruent.
Which spellcheck still insists isn’t a word.
Dreams fascinate me, the way entire worlds are built, sturdy worlds with neighborhoods and streets and homes which feel familiar yet don’t. And yet from the moment we float up to consciousness, even before we’ve opened our eyes, they slip away from us, those visits to another place we’ll likely not see again.
It’s nice, as a writer, to have a built-in source of inspiration and ideas. You don’t even have to take your dreams word-for-word; sometimes just the mood or setting will spark something.
Meanwhile, I still find myself wondering how something that can seem so real could never exist at all.
For more on my thoughts about Charlottesville and rising bigotry, please read An Open Letter to My Friends of Color.
Check out my full-length novels:
Aunty Ida’s Full-Service Mental Institution (by Invitation Only)
Aunty Ida’s Holey Amazing Sleeping Preparation (Not Doctor Recommended)
The Great Paradox and the Innies and Outies of Time Management.
And download Better Living Through GRAVY and Other Oddities, it’s free!
