Books on writing, the ones I’ve read, say keep them short or leave them out. But what about dreams as a source of inspiration, and no, I’m not talking about the dream of publishing a first novel, or for some another with a larger, more supportive publisher. At various voltages, a light shines in all of us. Drugs, of course, from caffeine to cocaine, can inspire paranormal sightings, produce work that is both manic and psychedelic. Rarely does it rest easily, or last the way a piece of rare statuary lasts. So where have they gone, these booze-free, tokeless dreams of ours? Have they died a natural death? Are you like me, a daytime dreamer who hasn’t had a nocturnal one to cling to since ten, when I flew over my neighborhood, flapping my arms, light as a leaf. Oh, to have that feeling again. I won’t. I blame it on Oprah, Brittany, and AOL’s teaser questions---usually preceded by celebrities, about whom they raise leering questions, for a long time about the couple who, after appearing on a reality show, divorced. Thinking there might be more important messages to ponder, should we stop mousing, write our last Twitter, bury our I-Phones, unplug the cable, and move to the country, where with our tent and pegs we could stake out a place under the stars, unroll our sleeping bag, and after closing our eyes, dream, really dream, and write down what we remember in the morning. After assembling all our dreams should we then try to fashion a novel that will make other people dream? Do you think that could happen? Are we capable of blocking it all out? Can we race toward the finish line with blinders on? Or will we, no matter how hard we try to resist, be thrown off stride by an e-mail, a text-message, or something unexpected, a credit alert, say, that tells you your identity has been stolen and that you now have charge accounts in twenty-eight states, most with large balances. At times like that Thoreau’s way of living shines like the star we’ve been searching for.
randy
randy
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