Last night I wrote a dream— or dreamed I wrote a story. When I got to a pit stop and stumbled to the loo it occurred to me that I was in the middle of a dream. The dream had a title (as so many writers’ dreams begin,) completely mundane: Last night I wrote a story. I kept repeating those words. as I crawled back in my bed to continue dreaming.
In the dream story it was well organized: and I wanted to make sure I didn’t forget. Sure, there’s a notebook and pencil there (somewhere) but finding it would require wakefulness, and being awake would ruin the dream stream. I wanted to use words like reverie, and gossamer, and thought about my new Thesaurus to find new words that would preserve my frame of mind. I knew that if I succumbed to sleep…enticing as it was…the dream would fade, or disappear altogether.
A train. That’s what the dream was about: writing a story about a train–and my thoughts were consumed with writing the outline of the story about the dream on paper, or sending it from my brain to my keyboard.