Lately, I have been into letter writing. I’ve been on a reading binge and read a few books, one of which is simply that, letter writing between friends. Since then, I have written Tiffany a hand written letter once, and meant to write another last Friday, but we know all about well laid plans. The blank card is sitting in my bag, silently traveling with me to and from work waiting for words.
I have also been emailing my other dearie, Rhonda. I mean we.are.emailing. She is a novelist, as her blog is so named, of the naptime variety, so naturally I reached out to her when I happened upon her site – and a friendship was born. What does this have to do with dreams? I will divulge. I’ve been anxious. So very anxious, dear reader, because of all the personal things I am shouldering. Also because I am pre-writing. We’ll get to it in a bit.
complaining whining sharing my feelings with Rhonda, because she had hoped my anxiety was better since last we corresponded. I told her that I wasn’t sure if it was better because I had the strangest dream the night before. When I woke this morning, I laughed it all off and thought “Well that was silly”. But as I wrote it out to her, the meaning of it, as it related to my novel, (if we can call it that now) began to take shape. Ready?
I am standing offstage watching J-Lo perform. What? I know. I’m so very sorry. I was standing there, in the wings, watching her. She was wearing the most beautiful nude, strapless dress, sauntering like she does across the stage. I could see myself, head cocked to one side, amazed by her on-stage antics, there was no sound. Suddenly, I notice that her boob is about to pop out of her dress. She is walking around the stage and it’s really about to come out. I thought “Oh dear, I hope someone in the audience motions to her that her boob is about to upstage her”. Next thing I know, it’s out. She continues to perform, and there’s still no sound. As she exits the stage, she comes right at me and yells “Why didn’t you tell me my boob was out??!” And I responded, “You need an assistant for that, and I ain’t it!” The audience never motioned to her, no one ever told her and I was getting the blame. That was it.
Before you click that little x at the top of your screen, because you’ve lost all faith in my tying this back to Rhonda, writing and anxiety, there is another dream I had prior, that I will share and then we’ll analyze both. Or you can turn your back on this whole endeavor, whatever you deem best. I know I am asking a lot here.
I was taking a shower. Everything was normal, nothing out of the ordinary. I was in my shower, I had my broken bits of rosemary mint soap in the dish from our vacation in the Adirondacks, face wash and shampoo bottles arranged on the floor according to size. All there. Suddenly, I poop cooked pasta. Yes, you read that right. Pooped the pasta. Stay with me. I panicked because I was worried I would lose all the food down the drain, I couldn’t get it all, and what if I clogged the drain? What if I didn’t catch it all? You ever try to keep just cooked pasta in your hands? And that was it. I woke up.
Now for my analysis for the dear readers who have courageously stayed with me. (I thank you.)
It’s important to note that Dream #2 happened last Tuesday evening while Dream #1 happened last night. So, here’s one part of the analysis done: I only dream on Tuesdays, it seems.
We will tackle this in the order it happened. So Dream #2 first.
The pasta is how I feel about my novel. It’s not concrete, not firm in any respect, I feel like it’s all over the place and I am so worried that the ideas *won’t* stop. How many ideas or character traits can fit in a novel? What works? What doesn’t? How do you know? I read somewhere that the only way to keep a novel fresh is to never.talk.about.it. Like Fight Club. I feel like Whitney Houston singing How Will I Know on repeat with the outfits and the hair. How can I not talk about it? I carry this around with me all the time, and it’s like a knot in my stomach, hence the aftermath that we won’t repeat.
Furthermore, I am pre-writing, as I stated earlier, in my black book, where I keep all of my everything, in my head. It is a paper and pen Pensieve of sorts. It’s not on a computer. There’s no drag and drop, cut and paste, search and find. It’s all old school. If writing books worked before computers, it should work now, right? Right. So I need to *not* worry, but – enter Whitney Houston again, this time, I should just Exhale.
On to Dream #1
I swear, look at the Pandora’s box I’ve opened. All because I want to write a novel.