Yeah, In Your Dreams

By Tamara Lee

Over the past ten years my dreams have started to haunt me. Not only the usual flying alligators and freaky minotaur stuff, but also dreams that unfold like stories, full of interesting, sometimes recurring, characters and conflicts; stories with a beginning, middle and end, possessing a bit of back story, a dramatic climax, and even themes.

For a while, I didn’t bother too much about them, and often flat-out ignored them. Seemed to me the dream only had value if I woke up remembering it.

Packed with so much cinematic detail, they seemed only to be there for my viewing pleasure and seemed more interesting than anything I’d ever write. Until it occurred to me that if I was dreaming them, I could probably write them. I’m not always a quick study when it comes to the subconscious.

The experience is not like lucid dreaming, which I’m sort of able to do, too. To change the story of the dream as it happens. I usually only try this when it’s a nightmare which, thankfully, I don’t have too often. These story-dreams, though, are never edited or altered; they're like little movies for my subconscious self, settling down with a bowl of popcorn, an audience of one, not knowing what’s going to happen next.

Eventually I decided to try rolling over and turning on my lamp—with little regard for the time or bed-partner—to write the damn stories out before I completely wake up. It’s become one of my favourite mental states, that place of split consciousness, when I’m able to relive the just-passed dream yet remain mindful enough of the present to write the words that both describe and evoke the essence of the dream.

Now I’ve a drawer full of dreamed-up stories jotted down over the years that I haven’t done much with. Some of the more interesting ones I can recall like any story I’ve written. Some I reacquaint myself with on those rare days I flip through old journals, wondering if the characters will ever see the light of a computer screen.

A couple months ago, some characters revisited me for a third time. I’d not thought of them for over a year, so when I dreamed about them, it was like reuniting with old friends. It was nice to see how they’d gotten on. The one boy was older and wiser from the experiences of the previous dreams, and there were new characters and storylines woven in and connecting to the original dream that have given more texture to the tale.

And still I have not written this story beyond those middle-of-the night scrawls. Maybe I’m afraid to touch it, to ruin the weave of its fragile structure. Maybe I sense the story just isn’t as interesting as it seems on paper. Maybe not writing the stories that keep haunting me implies something else.

To be honest, I’ve no idea where these story-dreams come from, and I'm not interested in researching the psychology or new-agey magic or juju behind their recurrence. Too much research can be a “big clunker,” as Michael Ondaatje discusses in this interview. He also describes how his creative process is to investigate the meaning and story behind a haunting single image. Perhaps the story-dreams are now a part of my creative process. I know I look forward to them, it’s just I never know if I should do anything with them afterwards.

It’s possible this three-part dream wants to be a novel. Novel writing is new to me, having moved through poetry to flash fiction and short stories, and short scripts to feature-length scripts. But I’m overwhelmed by the scope of story required for novels. The other genres all allow quick first-drafts, stories I can get out in a day, a week, or at most a month. And their revisions are more about tightening up the story, not necessarily expanding it.

Understanding how the big stories need the freedom to breathe and explore, to go skinny-dipping and dumpster diving on the same day, has been a slow learning. And I wonder if starting from scratch is easier, exploring the meaning of a single image, instead of trying to wrench out a story from a fully formed dream.

Whatever the answer, it’s sure to include the act of turning on a light and writing, with little regard for time, and at least some cursory acknowledgement of that consummate bed-partner, the popcorn-stuffed subconscious.