This morning I had a pretty detailed dream that, upon waking, seemed to make a good story.
Which helped me realize one aspect of being a writer: those dreams we cling to in the dim light of dawn under warm blankets, the ones we try to snuggle back into because they were so intriguing, or intoxicating, or fantastical. Writers can, sometimes, recapture those.
We can scribble down the thoughts before they flee us, and we can find them someday on a scrap of paper, when the actual memory of the dream has long been burned away by the light of day and the process of living. When we find them, though, we get to have them again. We get to wrap ourselves in them, and then, if we work at it, if we wrestle with it, if we craft a tale worth the dreaming, we can share it with others.
And, maybe this is the part- the secret sauce, others, in their reading add to our dreaming. A reader’s imagination takes the dream further than ours. A reader gets ownership of a sliver of a dream and nurtures it into a world.
I’ve been hammering out more poetry today. I doubt it shows. At all.