First, let me just say something- a disclaimer, if you will.
I like to believe in signs, but because it's fun and more interesting than not. For example, walking into the grocery store the other day, I nearly stepped on a dead bird. Now, that has got to mean something, doesn't it? Seeing a dead bird? Doesn't that hold some sort of influence for the rest of my day? I like to pretend it does- even if I make quite the stretch of the imagination.
So two nights ago, I had a dream that FOR ONCE, was not about the dogs in my kennels escaping. That in itself means something, people. I am unable to escape the responsibilities of my job, not on the weekends, not on the holidays, not in my sleep. At any given moment, I am in charge of any given number of lives; beloved pets left in my care by owners just as neurotic as me. I take that very seriously. Those animals have needs, and I must meet them. Not just keep them fed and watered- but also keep them happy and exercised. Managing a kennel is one of those jobs that can make you very happy, but it will also consume you to the point of complete burnout. How many years can you live, eat, and breathe 'dog'?? Apparently, for me, the answer is 4 and a half. I would love to have a job that ends when I walk out the door.
But anyway, back to my dream. I think I met my 'horse'- the creature that I dreamed up to symbolize my Writing Subconscious. She was a monster of a thing, with a huge broad neck and forehead much like the Chinese Tang Dynasty Horse. Her fur was a soft gray, her mane cut short. Her name was Libby, though I can't say how I know this. She came to me, walked up and lowered her head, pressing her forehead to my chest. I immediately loved her, even though she was most definitely NOT the creature of beauty I had hoped for, and I scratched her cheeks, the sides of her neck, rubbed her forehead and the soft, warm felt of her nose as she lip-nibbled at me.
And that was the entire dream. I woke up and knew that seeing this odd horse meant something- it HAD to- because I just don't have dreams like that. Ever. I think Libby came to me because of my slow progress with my novel, to reward me for hiding in the bathroom at work and writing when I should be cleaning. That day, the day after my dream, I figured out what my story is really about. I know the sequence of events for the first chapter, the motives of my antags, and I have a loose idea of how the universe will run. The details are foggy and slippery and I'm sure things will change (again), but I feel a sense of relief now. I'm thinking about the story nearly all the time, in a proud way. The bug of obsession that has been feeding Caroline has made its way back to me, after many long weeks of inactivity. (And no, there is not just ONE bug, Car. We each have one, and I am going to help you find yours again!)
So I'm signing off on a note of hope. I think that as creatures of imaginiation and creativity, writing truly is something that happens in cycles. If one were to live in a fantasy world all the time, they would find themselves in a straight-jacket among padded walls. Life demands priority. But even when you aren't inching your way towards a word-count goal, you can still be active in the story-telling. You can still examine your ideas, chew on them, twist them up and smooth them out and see if they are truly the best or only way to go. Going back into writing after days of not writing IS like plunging into cold water- but if you don't take a breath and jump, someone will come along and push you in. ;)
me
1 comment:
I haven’t ever imagined what my subconscious might be, and she has never visited me in this way, but I can’t help but feel an upwelling of exhilaration to learn about Libby. And, it makes such sense that she would manifest in your subconscious as a horse. Your writing is like a thoroughbred: wild and powerful and unbridled. It’s a sensory experience, a heady, consuming ride through landscapes and emotions as yet unchartered.
Reading your work is like being snatched away on horseback, fingers clutched in the reins, face whipped by the wind, thrown into that partway state between terror and exultation – knowing all you can do is hold on and trust that it’ll all be okay. All other thought is abandoned, swept away, lost. That’s what good books do – that’s what your writing does. Always has, but with Leland, that truth is even more than it ever was before.
I extend my utter appreciation to Libby. I believe that when you write, it is she who sweeps you away, takes you to Leland and acts as an interpreter. I suspect my subconscious manifests as an inebriated frog. I’d like to think it’s a bird, but I doubt it’s that lofty.
I’ve never seen a dead bird outside a supermarket. I’m not sure what that means. But I too believe in signs; in things happening for a reason – in determining (to a greater extent than we might wish to believe) our own destinies. What we wish, we become. What we believe, we are. What we fear, we manifest. I’ve experienced it, and yet I still distrust. Like this morning. Soon, I hope, I will learn.
My writing happens in cycles. I know that, and I’m beginning to trust in it. Writing isn’t just about the creation… it’s about the whole process: the composting, reading, observing, thinking, talking, being. The act of putting pen to paper (or text to screen) is but a small part of this. I’m only just beginning to honour this. I think MWW will teach us how to do this properly.
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