A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . . . sorry, wrong story. But it was a long time ago that someone describe me as “nothing but a dreamer”. They meant this in a derogatory sense but I have come to think of it as a compliment.
Think about it. Where would we writers be without our dreams? It’s our imagination, fueled by our dreams, that make us what we are.
Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die
Life is a broken winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams go
Life is a barren field
Covered with snow.~Langston Hughes
I remember having a dream once that was not only in vivid colour, it had a sound tract. The next day I heard the song on the radio - it was a song I’ve never heard before. Another time I dreamed that I had the perfect idea for a trilogy and I was telling my idea to my father (who’s been dead many years now). He told me what a wonderful idea it was, but when I woke up I couldn’t remember it.
My more detailed dreams I often record in my writing journal. It makes for some very interesting reading. A few have even made their way into my stories.
Lately I’ve been having some really weird dreams. One was about a planet with sentient dogs (the one I was friends with was a Tibetan Mastiff) and another was about a red neck baby shower. I wonder what my dreams are saying about me?
No comments:
Post a Comment