Dreams are boring.
That’s a rule in fiction.
Also in life. No one wants to hear about your dreams.
Not your night dreams, or nightmares, and not even your regular life dreams or goals: The former lacks narrative structure (“and then you were flying? Wait, I thought you were a shark?”) the latter makes people nervous because they may not be in touch with their own naked ambition.
I don’t want to bore you, but myself have very literal dreams: I’m always in a car, or a bicycle or moped, or whatever I’m driving at the time, and either I can’t find the brakes, or I’m not moving, or I’ve missed my exit, or something so obvious I can’t even call it a metaphor.
My writing dreams are equally boring.
I just want to write.
Sure, I want to write books and essays and treatments and articles — but that’s just form, not content. And maybe I say this only because I’m in the middle of book publicity and marketing, but most days, the days I feel really good are the days I just….
Write. And Dream.
