Drowned Dreams

Awake disturbed from strange, apocalyptic dream about wading to work through floodwaters after all-night party and being forced to do Tai Chi by guards at the Tower of London. Whole dream soaked in smoggy red light, like Impressionist paintings of London cloaked in Victorian sootiness. Spend some moments trying to shake off post-dream sense of doom, and to remember which Impressionist did those paintings. Fail to do either.

Know England long famed for rainy summers, but whole thing getting out of hand. Rain supposed to come in long-drawn-out curtains of drizzle, not nothing for months then great bucketfuls. Entire villages now up to windowsills in water, sheep being washed away, etc. Phone Aged Parent to ensure Aged P is not perched on roof, attempting to light pipe, while water advances towards well-polished brogues. Finally get through, to be assured Aged P has been happily on golf course all morning and seemingly largely oblivious of the fact that large areas of home town are under water. Apparently golf course drains well.

Wonder what it is like to live in world where all is pretty much well so long as golf course still playable. Suspect Aged P may have healthier attitude to life than self, for whom disturbing dream can leave emotional hangover that lasts for much of day, for no readily apparent reason.

Have read that some writers receive brilliant ideas, plot solutions, and entire stories in dreams. Seems like cheating, somehow. Why everyone else's subconscious more useful than mine?  Wonder if possible to take subconscious back and demand another one, on basis that own dreams utterly rubbish and largely confine themselves to terror, absurdity or embarrassment. Sometimes all three.

Try to wrench positive thought out of this, i.e., experience of emotions in dreams can be used in writing. However realize that, actually, usually manage to be panic-stricken, guilty, embarrassed, etc., on daily basis while awake, so really getting quite enough practice, without having to be miserable while asleep as well.

If can't have useful, plot-producing dreams, wish could at least have purely self-indulgent ones about i.e., Johnny Depp.

Must not fantasize about Johnny Depp. Must get back to novel. Novel deadline approaching with deadly speed of first few crumbles of snow tumbling down avalanche-prone mountainside.

Did not help that lost more than a week's writing time due to being flattened by tonsillitis. Absurd thing to get at own advanced age, thought tonsillitis was affliction of the young, including stay in hospital, brisk removal of tonsils, and much ice cream.

Could probably have had some ice cream if wanted it, but getting to fridge huge effort, also appetite disappeared, possibly assisted by doctor's cheerful assurance that tonsils were "running with pus." Image of which really enough to destroy one's appetite for quite some time, if not permanently. Rather hoped doctor would recommend immediate removal of disgusting tonsils, but this apparently No Longer Done; instead am sent home with battery of antibiotics and advice to remain horizontal for a week.

Lying on sofa v. boring. Lack of ability to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes also v. boring. Cannot even read more than paragraph without huge waves of exhaustion sweeping across torso. Feel like strange inadequate metaphor for poor old soggy England.

After utterly wasted week, manage to extract self from sofa but feel both body and brain gone soft from lack of use. Make feeble attempt at exercise, then head for desk.

Approach novel with similar emotions to those felt on discovering lidded plastic box in back of fridge that has been there for far too long. Should one open lid and discover what festering awfulness awaits within, or simply chuck whole thing, unopened, in bin, stifling all doubts?

Cannot chuck whole novel without at least looking at it. Open it as though attempting to disarm bomb.

Yes, is horrible mess. However, surprisingly, is horrible mess that is in fact creeping towards completion of first draft. Start roughing out next scene and discover, to own amazed delight, that something put in v. early on, merely in passing, has in fact major contribution to make to plot.

Blimey. Maybe subconscious has been hard at work all this time, and is not utterly useless after all. Must be nicer to subconscious. Will talk kindly to it before falling asleep, and offer metaphorical tea, cake, etc. With any luck, may be rewarded with more plot ideas, and possibly even dream about Mr. Depp.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.

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