Dreamland

This morning my wife was relating last night’s dream. We were hiking along the Mulholland ridge and our car was on the other side of the valley and we had to find someone who would allow us to hitch a ride. I said, ‘Where did that come from?’

Dumb question. It comes from our lives, real and imagined. All our experience is dumped into a mosh pit and it mysteriously recombines in our synaptic short circuits and comes out as something else.

As writers, it is the essence of creativity. We should celebrate our mosh pits. It’s money in the bank. Personally, I was in my 70s before I felt there was enough compost from which to draw. I am in awe of the young writers, really young writers, who can bring forth meaningful emotions and plots and story flow from their meager seniority, unless, of course, they are writing about young people’s issues only.

Now, as a plot possibility emerges in my pea brain, I find that stuff shows up and piles on. It’s not exactly as I lived it but close and I stir it all up in a new recipe put it in the oven of my manuscript and, viola!, out comes something new and interesting (if I do it right). I don’t question. I give thanks.