My Dream Home

Daily writing prompt

Write about your dream home.

My original dream home was the home I grew up in. I grew up in an older, architect-designed (as opposed to kit home) place with big bedrooms and plenty of project space in the basement. It was full of beautiful wooden trim and old metal heating registers and high ceilings. My parents did a lot of things with it I wouldn’t have, like torn out butler’s cabinets and bookcases built into the walls, but it was a beautiful house when we finally refinished it.

The house I currently live in is an echo of that house, a newer house (built 1919 rather than 1906), with simpler trim and a dining room set off from the living room by glass-paned French doors. The build is similar, although there are only three bedrooms instead of four.

My dream home has changed over the years, as I have gotten older and look forward to getting older still. My current dream home would be all on one level to help with mobility issues. It would be universal design, where the design would facilitate living independently without looking institutional. No stairs, accessible bathrooms, open floorplan, lever-style door knobs, and the like. It would also be energy efficient, perhaps built into the side of a hill or with passive solar heating design. A dream home would have a rocket mass stove in the living room to heat up the area and provide a focal point for the room (they’re very pretty pieces of masonry). And it would have a greenhouse where I could start seeds for the year, and a yard I could landscape.

I dream big. I’m not going to find a house like this, especially if I stay in Maryville. I could build one, but it wouldn’t sell well if I ever had to leave it. Plus I’m not rich, and this would be an expensive build. So my dream house is best left to dreaming about.

The Strangest Dream

Some mornings I can’t seem to wake up. I’m out of bed, I’m upright, I’m typing, but I am not awake. There’s a cup of strong coffee next to me, but I am not awake.

I woke up at 4 AM from an annoying dream in which my mother (a compulsive clothes shopper) left me a truckload of clothes that were 1) in the wrong size, and 2) profoundly ugly. Instead of taking them to my home, my sister brought them, racks and racks full, to a shopping mall and I was left to gather them all. And my sister started yelling at me because I had misplaced a supposedly valuable hot pink wool suit. I was trying to get it back from the store clerk who found it. At least I saved the glow-in-the-dark suit. There were at least 20 pale pink cotton shirts and matching polka-dot pants. I decided I needed to lose weight to fit into all these clothes I didn’t even like. An old friend walked by and held up a stretchy skirt saying I could never lose enough weight to wear it. I bet her I could wear it right now and put it on over a long black matronly skirt. A sales clerk from another store tried to persuade me that these clothes were, in fact, breathtakingly ugly. I got mad at him because I knew he was just trying to sell me more clothes.

I’m awake now and wondering what the heck that dream meant.

Nothing Left to Lose

I’d like to get to where I have nothing left to lose with my writing. Not to stop writing, but to write without an external reason. Not for readers, not for recognition, not for money, not to see my name in print. Just for the sheer joy of writing (when it is joy; sometimes it’s tedium).

I’m not there yet. I don’t care so much about the money, having probably earned only a couple hundred dollars so far. But I want people to read my books, comment about my books, and like my books. I have books with five reviews or fewer (and I have no way of knowing how many copies they’ve sold).

My dream is to have people want to write fanfic about my books, which I would let them do, keeping in mind the restrictions of the world I’ve built. I’d like to be a non-evil version of Marion Zimmer Bradley. This is far from the desire listed above.

Maybe the desire not to care is because there’s such a gap between where I am and where I’d like to be. Like I shot for the stars and ended up in the neighbor’s backyard. On the other hand, the freedom of not caring is exhilarating.

Finding the Story in the Dream

I finally found motivation yesterday! It came in the form of a dream, a dream that involved a man I had a crush on, escaping from his hoodlum associates, and gossiping with women I didn’t know.

The story I wrote had nothing to do with hoodlums or gossip, but everything to do with crushes and letting them go. It took interpreting the dream to come up with the connection.

I don’t do Gestalt analysis anymore, where you tell the dream from the perspective of every significant person and object in the dream, mostly because that gets very long and dry. I also don’t think it’s a superior method anymore. Instead, my husband and I reflect together on how each significant scene parallels real life.

If you are going to do this method, you must be very aware that 1) you are aware of the symbolic aspects of dreams, and 2) many of the aspects of dreams relate to your recent thoughts and experiences. I came across this method of dream analysis when a friend and I noted how my dreams paralleled the events of a full but idyllic day we had spent the day before.

So, this was what came out of the dream: I was looking in on a concert in the next room (crowded, night club) and guy I had a crush on was crowdsurfing right past the window but he wouldn’t look at me. Sounds like an unrequited crush to me.

Then, I’m in a room with crush and I start yelling at him about ignoring me. He listens, denies ignoring me, and then nods, and his henchmen (Eastern European bug guys, buzz cuts, dressed in black) start wrestling me. I break away and walk out. Crush has just had a bachelor party; the henchmen are anologous.

After that I break out and end up in a shopping mall. (No idea of what that’s symbolic of; I’d say finding another crush but I’m married, so it’s not something I’m seeking out although crushes make for great poetry) and run into some women in the bathroom (cleansing oneself?) I gossip about what happened previously.

So there’s the dream, all about releasing a crush.

The story I wrote? It’s about a woman who had a two-week fling with Oberon, king of Faerie; it ended abruptly when she asked to go to Faerie and he had to refuse her. When he returns to take her there thirty years later, she surprises him with her answer.

Same thing, yet so different. That is the power of a dream.

Pandora’s FedEx Package

I have a mystery box coming to me.

I found this out via a text from FedEx. One package to arrive on this Thursday before 5 PM. I love packages!

The problem is that I have no pending merchandise orders from anywhere. My husband doesn’t have any pending orders from anywhere. And, as far as I know, the cats don’t have any pending orders from anywhere.

In examining the FedEx text, I can discern the following: The package originated in Berlin, CT. The shipping path began in Northborough, MA. The package’s dimensions are 20x12x4, and it weighs 4.2 lbs. It has been in package jail in Odessa, MO for two days.

What can I deduce? I’m failing. My fantasy life has many guesses:

A present from family? (From Berlin, CT? I have no family there.)
A marked-up copy of my novel with a book offer? (I’m pretty much sure that’s not how it’s done.)
A package bomb? (By FedEx? Highly unlikely).
A sweepstakes prize? (“Here’s a grocery sack with our logo!”)
An inheritance from a long-lost relative? (“Here’s a grocery sack with a logo!)

I will know soon. It will likely be something I ordered six months ago that I can’t remember. But I can dream, can’t I?

How I started writing novels

Well, I finally wrote/revised for three and a half hours yesterday, fueled by copious amounts of coffee. I didn’t accomplish that much word-wise — maybe 1500 words at most. But I think I’m getting closer with Gaia’s Hands. Lots of work to go, though.

Gaia’s Hands is my first novel. It’s always been a problem child of a story. When I wrote it, I had no intention of writing a novel. I had written a short story based on a dream I had about an encounter between myself and a younger man. (If you think the dream had to do with the fact I was approaching my 50th birthday, you’d be right. And the dream was far more bizarre than anything I wrote from it.)

I wanted to know more about the dream, so I started doing a Gestalt dream analysis method where one tells the story from the viewpoint of the different characters, and even the important inanimate objects of the story. (I didn’t go that far). During this set of writing exercises, a story developed. And then another.

After the third story that developed from the dream, my husband Richard looked at me and said, “You’ve got all these stories. Why don’t you write a novel?”

I had never written a novel before because I think in terms of short stories — small plots with big twists, big themes. Novels have big twisty plots, and I wasn’t sure I knew how to plot those. I wrote Gaia’s Hands anyhow. Its original name was Magic and Realism, and it was heavy in theme and extremely light in plot. It was basically a love story, and although I have nothing against love stories, the characters did little more than hang out together.

And then I wrote more novels, some of which collapsed into each other (For example, Magic and Realism became Gaia’s Hands, and then it subsumed another novel during the same time period called Gaia’s Eyes and that’s the novel I’m currently re-editing) and somehow I got better at writing big twisty plots.

It’s been a lot of hard work editing and re-editing, and then getting help editing from a developmental editor and re-editing, but I’ve learned my goal has shifted from getting published to getting good, then getting published. I don’t want to grow to regret anything I’ve published.

I guess now I can call myself not only a writer, but an author, because I have devoted myself to growth. And it literally, cliche notwithstanding, started with a dream.

Day 25 Reflection: Blessings

Note: I am not usually overly Christian in my writing, being rather universalist in my leanings. But as the topic is blessings, I thought I would write in the dominant American religious view, Christianity, and its struggle with the concept of blessings.
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I dreamed last night that I was watching a religious TV movie and then I was in it. In the dream, I had checked in to this hotel of sorts, feeling rather down, and I noticed the others in there with me suffered from similar struggles. Being in this place, this boarding house of sorts, elevated us and helped us feel more cherished in the world.

Then I stepped out of the movie for a moment and said to my husband, who watched the movie with me (at a bed-and-breakfast, incidentally) “Watch what happens” in the most cynical tone of voice.

When I returned to the movie, one of the people running the establishment had added a month’s supply of some sort of supplement to my bill. And then the other residents started objecting to the new residents who had come in — from what a sputtering man said, his children should not be exposed to what he called “girly-boys”.

In a state of being blessed, we too often ask God to bless people like ourselves, not who we see as our enemies. We’d prefer it if God smote our enemies, like He did in the Old Testament. After all, they’re evil. They’re our enemies. We are the chosen ones, after all. We are Christian.

Actually, that’s not Christian. We are supposed to have evolved from that when Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount and when He gave his one Commandmant: Love your God above all and your brother as yourself — and note that he specifically gave an example of the Other — the despised Samaritans — as our brother.

If you are blessed, bless others. Bless those not like you. Bless your enemies. Blessings are not an economic good — that is, there is no finite amount of blessings such that blessings to your enemies or strangers detract from yours. It may be that your blessings to others soften their hearts or soften yours.

At the very least, blessing your enemies takes away the constant tension of hating your enemies and wishing them bad. You will find that a blessing.

Day 6 Reflection Part 2: My struggle

I may be moving away from writing. Or at least writing novels.

I just haven’t felt it lately. The thrill of writing hasn’t been there since I finished Whose Hearts are Mountains in December. I haven’t started a novel since then; now I have struggled with proofreading/editing the last of my backlog of novels before developmental edit.

The fantasy of getting published has pretty much died. I don’t know if the average of 250 readers per self-published novel is worth $500 in developmental edit fees and sixty to 100 extra hours of work per novel. I don’t know if I could even get that many readers. I’m wary of the pitfalls the vulnerable writer can fall into: vanity presses and publishing mills, and will not consider those as choices.

The thing that really worries me is that, when I say “I could quit,” I often don’t feel a thing. No cheer, no relief, no regret, almost like I hadn’t spent five years, countless hours, $2000 and an investment of identity into writing novels and trying to get published.

I don’t feel bad about quitting until I write this out: I might quit my quest to be published. When I say that, I feel the death rattle of a dream, but at the same time I wonder if that dream of being published, being read is unreasonable, unworkable, pie-in-the-sky. I wonder if there are more reasonable things to dream about.

This is my struggle. Pray for me, or wish me luck, or whatever you feel moved to do.

Day 4 Reflection: Dreams

It’s hard to write about dreams these days without sounding trite. Whether dreaming big or following one’s dreams, it’s been said before.

I want to talk about dreams as the cauldron of our subconscious, where our minds process the bits and pieces of our day into scenarios that twist through our sleep. Luxurious scapes, clandestine relationships, twisted corridors with monsters from our id, these are the denizens of our sleeping hours.

When we dream, sometimes we wake with decadent stretches and a purr, a grin on our face. Other times we sit bolt upright in bed clutching our blankets. Throughout the day, we revisit the dream, mulling it over in our head trying to find meaning in it, to use it to inform our day or to banish the tendrils of nightmare.

Or to harness its power in a story. Many years ago, I suffered through a kidney infection for a few days, spending much of the time asleep. I spent the time in dreams — in one long dream that passed for hours, where I found myself in a desert commune after the experiment called the United States had crumbled into city-states. The contrast between the strife outside and the people who pledged to peace, and the hope that peace lent to those the peaceful folk encountered, stayed with me when I woke, as did the relationship between myself as protagonist and a member of the commune.

I wrote what I could remember, the bare bones of a couple scenes, too long for a short story and too sketchy for a novel. I didn’t write novels back then, feeling overwhelmed by all the words needed.

This spring, after four or five novels under my belt, I revisited that dream with all its dread and promise. I was ready for the dream, for its message, for all its words.

The book, some seventy-thousand words long, waits for its developmental edit. Sometimes we manifest dreams into reality, one way or another.

Hope Springs Eternal or, Sisyphus Was an Optimist

Hope springs eternal.

I sent a query off to DAW Books, one of those other Big 5 publisher imprints that don’t require an agent. If my history with Prodigies is any indication, I should hear nothing from them in 6-8 weeks (they don’t send rejections if I understand correctly) and be done with it.

Why do I do it, even though my chances of being chosen for publication are small?

Because if I don’t do it, I’ll never know.

Because I’m the sort of person who tries, even if I fail.

Because I like to make things happen.

Because I’m an eternal optimist.

Because I think my writing deserves to be read.

Because I don’t want to be the one that gave up too soon on a dream.