Dream or Let Go?

Sometimes I still dream of success.

To me, success in writing looks like:

  1. Finding an agent
  2. Getting a publishing contract
  3. Having a readership and modest sales
  4. Interacting with others on my blog

Given that I haven’t achieved the first yet, and given that the other goals are probably dependent on that first goal. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get there.

This is why I’m considering self-publishing, but I have so many questions about it, such as:

  1. If you self-publish, will people always put a figurative asterisk by the word “author” after your name?
  2. How do you get the word out about your novel?
  3. If my novel doesn’t get accepted by agents, is there really a chance that readers will gravitate to it in self-published format?
  4. Can one get famous (ok, somewhat well-known) self-publishing?
  5. Will I have to spend all my time promoting my book instead of writing?

These questions may be proof that I’m still dreaming and doing a lot of assuming. I’m assuming that my books are good enough to find a following rather than languishing on a virtual shelf somewhere, which is a lot to assume even if I get traditionally published.

My affirmation cards keep saying that I have great ideas, the time is not right, let go of expectations, to the point that the same cards keep showing up in readings.

Our American society says that we should hold on to our dreams. Buddhism, on the other hand, suggests attachment — even to a dream — causes unhappiness. Which shall I do — hold on or let go?

Old song today

There is music that goes with this:

Turn the corner
to a street beyond a map,
walk much further
till our feet forget the path.
We have walked here,
but only in our dreams;
then we wake up
never knowing what it means

Turn the handle,
slide back the creaking door
as I wonder
if you’ve been here before.
Weathered iron
is rusting in its sleep
as we sit here
in the silence that we keep

In the morning
if the snow has turned to gold
does it matter
in a story never told (2x)

Turn the corner
to a street beyond a map,
walk much further
till our feet forget the path.
We have walked here,
but only in our dreams;
then we wake up
never knowing what it means

In the morning
if the snow has turned to gold
does it matter
in a story never told (4x and fade)

Tiny thought

In my heaven, we would all understand there are different types of love, and we would define ourselves in terms of how much we could love. We would understand different types of love enough that we wouldn’t try to make everything romantic, and we would not get jealous because we would respect boundaries. But love would be there, and we would be allowed it.

Dream sequences

I love writing dream sequences. They allow me to write abstract sequences that nonetheless hint to future developments of the plot.

My idea here is that we do a lot of subconscious processing when we dream. One theory of dreams, which does not sit well with non-scientists, is that the objects and happenings in our dreams are processed and reviewed to put into long-term storage. If your newfound Aunt Martha reminds you of your long-departed Aunt Mary, you’re as likely to dream of Martha as Mary that night, because your short-term memory connects Martha and Mary. The next morning, you think to yourself, “Oh, that’s why I felt the presence of a ghost — Aunt Martha reminds me of my dearly departed Aunt Mary!” often without remembering the dream.

Non-scientists like to believe that dreams are ripe for interpretation. Freudians have set symbols they look for in dreams, focusing on the Freudian hallmarks, the urges and taboos we sublimate to be acceptable adults: sex, defecation, and death. An interesting situation in Freudian interpretation: dreaming of turning on a faucet symbolizes sex.  Dreaming of having sex with someone does not. Many dream interpretation books on the market are at least semi-Freudian in their interpretations.

Meanwhile, Jungian interpretation focuses on the people in your dream, and how they resemble the archetypes that feature heavily in our stories and deeper psyche. So the Jungian dream would look at the animus (your darker self), mentors, quests — in other words, Jung puts your dream through a Star Wars filter.

Others’ take on dreams is that they give messages — not only the result of subconscious processing above, but prosaic messages from the outside that the brain connects — much like the scientific theory above — but precognitive messages, messages from mystical connections, messages from others alive or dead, messages from our most inner self.  Even though this sounds like mental illness, we all know people we call superstitious that have these beliefs. The person who dreams of deceased Aunt Mary believes that anything Mary said or did in the dream is a direct message. They may believe that they themselves are the next family member slated to die.  A common belief is that cardinals carry messages from the dead, so someone might dream of a cardinal instead of Aunt Mary.

When I write about dreams, they have elements of subconscious processing of mysteries with a touch of the mystical — but just a light touch. Generally, a series of seemingly unrelated data come together through subconscious reasoning — but still may not be interpretable to the dreamer because of the need to disbelieve. At the end, I introduce the mystical finger pointing to a future revelation. That’s just how I do it, and I’m sure the Freudians and Jungians disagree.

I wrote a dream last night and I’m really proud of it. I may show it to you later.

**********
This morning I start at 32,000 words, give or take a couple. My goal is to be finished by Friday, which gets me to the 50,000 goal 14 days ahead of time. I will continue writing, except at a slower pace, and I will have a writers’ retreat (with massage! And sauna and steam bath and hot tub oh my!) at The Elms in Excelsior Springs for Thanksgiving with Richard!

Love you all.

Big Audacious Goal reached for today.

Officially at 13,000 words (give or take a few!) One quarter of the way through!

*******

Afterward, I dreamed that my dad yelled that I had written the story all wrong and that the aftermath of the collapse on Duluth, MN would look nothing like I’d written it. I fled to the bathroom, and tried to put makeup on for some high school banquet I was about to be late for. I had put on skin correctors of different colors for different parts of my face, except they were glossy and glittery in patriotic red and blue and would not smooth in.

I walked into my room, and clicked the mouse on my computer, reading the notes I had taken when I interviewed a Texas secessionist for my story. I remembered standing on the loading dock as he stood there, semiautomatic rifle slung across his back, explaining that the patriots needed to get the country back from the foreigners. I wrote down the words, sickened.

I tried to dress as quickly as possible, sensing that I would never arrive at the banquet that I would be honored at.

I woke up, reminding myself that the words are important and wondering if I was ever going to get them out in an order that would compel people to read them.

Interrogating the Dream

I get my ideas for writing from my dreams (I’m pretty sure I’ve already told you that). This post regards the first book I wrote and the dream that first tripped me into writing. 

The writing I post today is not the dream itself. I will not post the actual dream, because it, like many dreams, concerns a lodge frozen in the 70’s and run by Mennonites, an underground world with the white plastic walls of a gas station bathroom, and random sex with a stranger. 
I couldn’t get the dream out of my head (blame middle age) so I decided to analyze it, beginning with a Gestalt method — “Talk about the dream from the viewpoint of the mint green Formica countertop” etc Then I switched to interrogating the dream by asking questions of the characters: “Who are you and why did you get involved with this? What did you feel at the time? What would you like me to know about you?”
This process resulted in a snippet of dialogue. Note that this dialogue didn’t make it into the book (It’s a little too dreamy) but a book grew out of the relationship these two characters have. The book is not romance, and has only oblique references to sex. But here’s a snippet of my creative process, “Interrogating the Dream”:
*****
Josh dreamed that night. The scene was a battered wooden stage made up as a living room with a beige couch, a side table cluttered with books, and an easy chair. Jeanne sat on the chair; the lights were set relatively low to simulate a relaxing evening. The mood, however, was anything but relaxed.  The dream unfolded, a disturbing play starring him and Jeanne. When he woke up, he pulled out his ever-present notebook, and transcribed the dream as a script:
A SIMPLE, BUT COMFORTABLE LIVING ROOM. THE FURNITURE IS A COUCH WITH A SIDE TABLE AND AN EASY CHAIR.
Jeanne sits on the couch, leaning forward, holding a piece of paper. She wears a black sweater and wears her hair down.
                                     JOSH (VOICEOVER)
I’m sorry. I’m afraid I hurt you.
                                     JEANNE
It’s okay. I just feel strange about it.
                                     JOSH (V.O.)
I think I took away your choice.
                                     JEANNE
No. I could have stopped you. I don’t know why I didn’t.
                                     JOSH (V.O.)
I don’t know why I did it. I was sleepwalking. I was hungry.
                                     JEANNE
This scares me. It’s too dark.
                                     JOSH (V.O.)
I want to bring this into the light. I’ll find you.
Josh walks onto the stage. He wears a red shirt with the Chinese symbol “ai” and jeans. He sits on the couch, Jeanne stands up and begins to pace, stopping to turn to him when she delivers her lines.
                                    JEANNE
How old are you?
                                    JOSH
I’m 20.
                                   JEANNE
That worries me. You’re fragile.
                                   JOSH
Why do you say that?
                                  JEANNE
You’re so young.
                                   JOSH
I’m young. I’m short.  I’ve had to develop more strength than most. Remember who asked to bring this into the light.
                                  JEANNE
Why leave me a note when you were right outside?
                                  JOSH
Strangely, words have more power when you have to read them.
                                 JEANNE
How so?
                                 JOSH
I say words and they’re ephemeral. They only stay as long as your memory lets them. I write them, and they’re there for you to reread.
                                JEANNE
What if I throw away the paper?
                                JOSH
Your conscience remembers why you threw away the paper. The words remain.
Jeanne stops pacing and faces him on the couch.
                               JEANNE
Let’s bring this into the light.
                               JOSH
Okay. Let’s do it.
                              JEANNE
Why did you — I don’t understand what happened.
                               JOSH
I know. I thought I was dreaming. Until the end. This is not how I wanted my first time to be. I wanted my first time to be slower. I wanted to freeze time; I wanted to register every pressure, every breath. I wanted to see your face.
Jeanne sits on the couch next to Josh.
                             JEANNE
Some first times are ludicrous, some are hurried, some are drunken, and some are rape.
                             JOSH
What was your first time like?
                            JEANNE
Mine was rape.
                             JOSH
How could someone —
                            JEANNE
Two someones. I was thirteen. It’s long past.
                            JOSH
Oh my God. I’m sorry.
                           JEANNE
I shouldn’t have told you.
                           JOSH
Why not?
                          JEANNE
You’re so damn young.
                          JOSH
I’m not so sure of that. I think you’re younger than me sometimes, inside. And maybe I’m ancient, like a tree. And maybe sometimes I can give shelter.
Jeanne turns away.
                         JEANNE
I can’t accept your offer. You’re too damn young.
Jeanne stands and turns to Josh.
                        JEANNE
What do you want from me?
                 
       JOSH
I want you to accept me for who I am.
                       JEANNE
So who are you?
                        JOSH
I was quiet and easily overlooked. I fell in love with my anger, fell into darkness. Until I watched a storm — I saw lightning split a tree. I realized I was the tree as well as the storm. I had to ask myself what the tree needed.
                      JEANNE
What did the tree need?
                      JOSH
To be allowed to be.
Jeanne walks across the stage and addresses the audience.
                    JEANNE
It’s all backwards. We should have gotten the chance to say “this is who I am” first.
Josh stands and walks toward her.
                     JOSH
Would you have even looked at me?
Jeanne turns to face him.
                    JEANNE
That’s the hardest thing you’ve asked.
                    JOSH
Why?
                   JEANNE
Oh my God. You don’t understand. You’re beautiful. I can hardly take my eyes off you. And I’m older, and I’ve lived more. I have all the power here. I touch you, and I’ll overwhelm you. I’ll stunt your growth, you’ll end up gnarled and twisted.
                   JOSH
You describe yourself as the Wicked Witch in this tale.
                   JEANNE
Well?
                   JOSH
What if I came up to you and introduced myself? Isn’t there power in that? And what if I started the conversation?
Jeanne turns away.
                  JEANNE
That’s not what I’m scared of.
Josh puts his hands on Jeanne’s shoulders to get her to look at him
                   JOSH
What if I said you were beautiful?
                  JEANNE
 I would probably cry.
                  JOSH
What if I kissed your tears —
                 JEANNE
You shouldn’t –
                  JOSH
Why not?
                  JEANNE
Because then I might fall a little in love with you.
                   JOSH
And then I’d be powerless?
Jeanne walks away from Josh a few steps to break the contact and turns to face him.
                  JEANNE
Do you accept me for who I am?
                  JOSH
Who are you?
                  JEANNE
I’m 50 years old, I’m fat. I laugh too loud.
                   JOSH
That’s just your skin. That isn’t all of you.
                  JEANNE
I laugh a lot. I have to watch what I say sometimes.
                   JOSH
Go deeper.
                  JEANNE
I fall in love all the time. I don’t weigh the consequences of words. I fight a fatal attraction to people’s darkness. I’m the strongest person I know.
                  JOSH
But who are you?
                  JEANNE
I am a child who talks to birds.
Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne.
                  JEANNE
Why did you?
                   JOSH
I was hungry for touch. Did I hurt you?
                  JEANNE
No, you were surprisingly … gentle.
                   JOSH
Good. I don’t think I could stand it if I wasn’t. But — why did you?
                   JEANNE
I guess I wanted to be wanted. Not a good reason, I know. It’s dangerous — I give away all my power to the person who pays attention. Over and over again I replay my childhood, hoping that for once it ends differently.
                   JOSH
I guess I do the same thing. ‘Notice me, I’m not insignificant.’
                  JEANNE
No, you are not insignificant. I don’t know how anyone could make that mistake.
                  JOSH
But they do. To be a man, you’re supposed to be tall, built, substantial. People look over my head to look for men.
                  JEANNE
Maybe they don’t know how to recognize a man.
                  JOSH
Maybe they don’t know how to recognize beauty, either.
Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne; they face each other, putting their hands on each other’s shoulders. 
(Pause) What if I said you were beautiful?
                 JEANNE
I would probably cry.
                 JOSH
What if I kissed your tears —
                JEANNE
I might fall a little in love with you.
                JOSH
Accept me for who I am. I am the tree and the storm.
               JEANNE
I am the strongest person I know, a child who talks to birds.
               JOSH
I am not insignificant. Don’t overlook me.
              JEANNE
Choosing from strength, it ends differently
               JOSH
I want to freeze time, I want to register every pressure, every breath. I want to see your face.
Josh and Jeanne embrace, and the curtain falls.