Shadow Dreams

I'm plotting my next four stories. I have no choice because each story overlaps and interweaves within the other stories.

I might have mentioned this before . . . once or five times.

In other words, I'm staring, and walking, and thinking; and talking out loud to myself, and randomly blurting out words at inopportune times, and dreaming. And then I run to my random pieces of paper and scribble something down on the appropriate page.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I woke up at 4 AM, with my hands twisted under my neck, supporting it (which was actually very comfortable). I was warm and toasty. And I had an amazing dream that could help point me the right direction on the Earth elemental plot problem I was having.

Except I couldn't remember the dream . . . at all. Nothing, nada, zip-a-rooni, not a clue.

And the dream gave me such a happy and glowing feeling.

I lay there or a minute or two and tried to remember. But it wasn't coming back to me. . .

Yet.

How many times have you been in a conversation and you can't recall a particular word, or name, or whatever? Then ten minutes later, you're driving away and blurt it out?

Yeah, like that.

The mind is a wonderful thing. I know my sub-conscience is working on the problem and sometimes the answer comes to a problem when we aren't focused on that particular issue.

So today I plan to figure out the theme of these stories. It will be a little difficult because they are their own story but have to link into this greater conspiracy theory issue. . . .

wait a second . . .

So THAT's what these stories are all about . . .

Time to go. I have to jot this down before I forget it!

Later, Peeps!

Stolen Memories

I awoke from a bizzarro dream this morning.

My daughter and I were traveling in an RV--you're kidding, right? I wouldn't even drive our Ford Expedition when we owned one!--across the country. After rolling through a cemetery, we came across a small side road and I managed to turn this thing around and parked it in a cozy wooded area--that suddenly turned into an RV park. We went to a Silver Dollar City type amusement park only to return to find the RV had been broken into.

The only item stolen was the fishing tackle box that held my earrings.

Someone had stolen my memories, because that is what mementos are all about--that, and memento is on my daughter's vocabulary list this week.

I tracked down the thief by looking at everyone's earrings. If you didn't read my blog about my earrings, you wouldn't know that most of my earrings are unique, to say the least.

And I remember where I got each pair. There are memories stored in that box along with earrings.

So I find the thief and ask to take her picture. Stupid woman allows me to take a front pic and a side pic--BTW: she was wearing my trapeze frog earrings. I wasn't happy about this. She got her ear funk all over my stuff. I also asked her where she got the earrings. She responded that she couldn't remember.

You're kidding, right? If you're wearing funky looking earrings at least have the courtesy to make a story up!  

I also followed her to her camper with a armed security guard. My earrings were intact in their box, but she wanted me to prove they were mine--I had pictures, of course. I told her I wouldn't prosecute if she returned them. She did. Cop arrested her when I got my stuff. She yelled at me, and my response was, "I'm not prosecuting, but they are," I said pointing to a group of other campers who had stuff stolen.

This brings me full circle to the idea of stolen memories. This happens a lot in books, movies, and real life.

--the flashy thing in the Men in Black movies--takes memories of an alien occurrence.
--zombies in Warm Bodies don't have memories of their own, but when they eat the brains of their victims, the zombies will remember their memories.
--early Alzheimer's is a horrible disease. . . for those associated with the loved one who has it. The person with the disease can't remember that they've forgotten, except vaguely in a frustrating sort of way. But it is devastating for those left behind, since they remember all the good times and their loved one doesn't.
--in my stories, my goblin mentor will do a Vulcan mind wipe on some of my secondary characters, which also removes any good memories of the times they had with my protagonist. This leaves my protagonist more lonely than ever . . . except now, their memories are returning.

Well, gotta story to write.

Later, Peeps!

Writing 101 - Reading a Dream

I dreamed last night.

It wasn't just that I had a dream, but it was one of those dreams full of symbols. Normally, I abhor symbolism, especially in books. When teachers tell you that this and that is what the author meant when he wrote it. How do they know? Usually the author is dead and can't give input. Why couldn't the author simply be writing a wonderful story? Sometimes the symbolism is there and means something to you and sometimes I think these teachers are trying to hard.

But this dream of mine, allowed me to see everything in a clear light.

Wow.

Especially when I'm not one of those people who put a lot of stock in dream reading or whatever it's called.

So here it is:

I was in a town--a very Grimm-type of town--not freaky-deaky scary, but odd. The first evening the town walks to this steep hill, more like a cliff, to watch some other people attempt to climb it. It was straight up with two sets of stairs, one 'normal' set and one rickety set of stairs. Most of the people who tried to climb up didn't make it. I go back to my room and tell my mom about this cliff.

She looks at the clock and says that I have an hour before sunset, so why not give it a try?

I go back to the cliff. Most of the crowd had disappeared, but when they see that I intend to climb the cliff, it grows again. Do I choose the easy set of stairs, no. I choose the challenging set of narrow stairs, because I'm stupid in that way, always choosing the hard way. After nearly falling off a couple of times, and having someone try to pull me off,  I reached the pinnacle. The crowd goes wild.

I had made it.

But then I had to follow the path that was set out. I don't remember much of this path, except that it wandered here and there over low low hills. In fact, you could see the path from the top of the cliff. I knew it wouldn't be an easy route, but the tough work was finished, right?

Then the path moved into a forest. The trees started crowding me on either side of the path. A cold fog had moved in, blocking the sun. Darkness gathered and the path was getting difficult to see.

I had a decision to make, go forward or go home.

I had the tools to make it through the dark woods, but did I have the courage?

I turned back.

Only a few feet later, I met a family of four hurrying into the deep, dark, foggy woods. I asked them where they were going. The mother replies, "But we have to get to school. This is the only path." Soon they disappeared into the eerieness.

Undecided, I make my way back to the safety and comfort of the familiar, but while in the forest I run into three men. Two seemed to be of suspicious character, while the third one seemed a little naive--in a Jack Black sort of way. I decide to tag along for some company. 

We stopped at one point and lit a campfire. Jack Black offers to pay the men to guide us on the path. He opens his coin purse and removes one coin, but letting all of us see how much was in there. I'm thinking to myself, "Don't do it, you idiot! Now they know how much money you have and will take it all away!"  

My dream gets a little blurry right about then. I don't know what happens to the thieves or Jack Black, but I remember what my mom said when I got home.

Mom:"That was quick. You've only been gone for a few minutes."

Me: "But there was a heavy fog and the forest was dark and there were thieves."

Mom: "So what? I never said it would be easy. It takes courage to forge your way. I guess you didn't have what it takes."

Ouch! Moms can be brutally honest like that.

And I woke up.

This dream was so obviously about my writing journey. I've always said that it's a path we follow, but no one's path is the same. Some paths are straight and easy, while other paths go every which way . . . some even go into the dark recesses of our minds to test our courage.

I failed.

I chickened out because the path became difficult. I had the tools to move forward--a flashlight on my Android phone, but I didn't have the courage to take chances, to see if the sun would still be up on the other side of the woods.

One thing I do know is that I'm going to take the challenge again. Why? Because I'd been there before. I'd already climbed that cliff of learning the craft of writing, of writing those million words of crap, of digging deep, but this time I'm going to walk into those dark, dank trees of uncertainty, insecurity and fear.

I don't know what I'm going to find, maybe nothing, but at least I made the effort. I attempted to make the writing journey.

This time, I won't turn around.

What about you? Will you quit when the going gets tough? Or will you dig deep and find the courage to move on?

Later, Peeps!