Another dark-of-night post. From the sidelines of a dream.

I’m seeing it now. It is fresh in my head. The strange place of dreams.

When we dream we see things, visit places, we have never seen, never known. We meet people we have never met.

When we write, we try to do the exact opposite thing: We draw from places and people we have seen to create the ones that we have not. We try to invest in the writing a quality of the dreamlike. At least, in my style of fiction, I do.

And yet. And yet.

As we seek the super-reality, the true, the honest in our writing, sometimes we blur the line between the real and the not. Sometimes we lose it altogether.

Oh, what impressionable creatures we are. We interpret. We report. We remember and store away for later.  What we see in the corporeal world, we translate into the inner one. The inner world comes back to us and informs the writing world. An eternal feedback loop of revelation and discovery.

Dreams and reality. If dreams show ourselves to us, the writing shows us to everything, everyone else. Like being naked in public, outside and in.

 

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