I wish I could blog in my sleep. Right now, I’m sleepy enough that I can’t build up a brilliant topic to write, and I don’t want to leave this space blank. If I could sleep and blog, I could blog my dreams while they were happening, without the internal censor of my waking self trying to make sense of them. I might look something like this:

Richard and I are moving out of an apartment which apparently isn’t ours. We’ve been putting this off because we don’t know whether we’re taking the train or driving home, We are all actually in a house where the family is leaving to go on vacation, leaving it to us (who are leaving) and a half-dozen teens who were hanging at the house without making any attempts of cleaning up after themselves. I am standing in the hallway on the cell phone with a friend (let’s call him Kermit) advising him on how to deal with another friend (let’s call him Arnold), who has a rather unique and quirky personality. I go back in and find Richard’s gone, and I can’t get a hold of him on the phone. I search a nearby college union (University of Illinois Illini Union) to no avail. I’m all weepy all over the place for the next day, stumbling through conferences at the Union because whatever. I finally hear from Richard, who acts like nothing happened. He tells me where he is (notice we are not fully packed for the trip to one of two places, either by train or by car, and all of a sudden I’m on roller skates in an upscale shopping mall, trying to find where Richard is. I discover the only way down to another level in the brick hallway along a mirrored wall is a wide, stalled escalator. I wheel onto the escalator, and instead of skidding down the stairs, I hover down them, all the way down, until I lightly touch the ground.

Think about how I would have written that if I was awake. I would have interpreted it: “The moving out of the apartment mirrors our current situation with evicting renters … ” and I would have tried to make sense of it, smoothing out some of the discontinuities and pointing out that, in real life, I neither skate nor hover.

When I write from a dream, I try to capture that wild discontinuity, the more fanciful elements. But I admit I smooth them out, because it’s only human to either want things to make sense or blame the vivid weirdness of a dream on pizza before bed or a bad acid trip. But think about if the above was a less prosaic dream — and it is rather prosaic in topic. How about a dream about finding a commune in the desert populated by immortals who were trying to hide their identities, and then finding out you were the child of one of those immortals and a human? What kind of identity crisis would she have? And what if she were being pursued for the secret she holds, bringing danger to the commune?

That was a dream I had 30 years ago while sick with a kidney infection, where the dream stretched over two days. I’m writing that book now — it’s called Whose Hearts are Mountains, and I hope to get it done someday.