I like to write helpful posts. Information, discoveries, inspiration, resources—things that’ll help you do whatever it is you’re trying to do.
This probably isn’t one of those posts.
But it still might brighten your general outlook. So here we go…
A writer’s brain likes to entertain itself, especially when it’s had a sleep aid.
Last night, I dreamt that I was on a sail boat packed bow to stern with other contractor creatives, mostly copywriters and designers. The skies were charcoal grey. The seas were stormy. Wave after wave dumped water on our heads (I was on deck). We all wore argyle sweaters.
Whoever was at the helm took us to a deserted island and unloaded us onto shore, still wearing our argyle sweaters.
One by one, we had to stand in a wooden outhouse from the Wild West; complete with moon silhouette on the door.
And one by one, as we stood in the outhouse, we were shot.
Through the door.
With a shotgun.
All because we were contract creatives.
Strange part was my “oh crap, not again” attitude. No fear. Just mild, sardonic disbelief.
Now, my brain will usually come up with some weird dream to wake me up when it’s biologically necessary (gotta pee). However, most of those are full of zombies, spiders and ax murders.
But shot while standing in a wooden outhouse on a deserted island? Just for being a contract copywriter?
That’s just mean, Brain.
I was fifth in line. By the time I was stuffed in the outhouse, there was an argyle-clad body pile to step around.
Now, a writer’s professional life is full of ups and downs. I get that. I live that. It comes with the territory. I don’t need that in my dreams. There are other ways to get me up.
So when you, dear reader, are having a tough day, just think: at least you’re not being shot to death in a wooden outhouse on a deserted island.
Did that brighten your day? At least a little? What’s one of the weirdest curve balls your dreaming brain has ever tossed your way?
5 thoughts on “What writers’ dreams are made of…?”
So much symbology there, Ducky!
My brain is wired so tight because of the bipolar that I’ve had nothing but bizarre dreams for decades. Sometimes I wake up gasping for breath. Sometimes, I’m sobbing. Most of the time, I don’t know where I am if I wake up abruptly. Meh. I used to try to figure them out. For the most part, now, I just let them go. I know what part of my life (and the when, where, and who) they’re coming from anyway.
Occasionally, I’ll have a non-frightening, loose-knit, full-length story – which I can’t remember when I wake up. Darn!
I’m sorry your dreams are so troublesome. The least the full-length story ones could do is linger long enough for you to write them down. That’s just rude.
“Rude.” What a perfect sentiment!
Disturbing. I loved my handknit argyle socks. Darned them three or four times till there was no longer any purchase to be had. Buried them with honors that befit them, their long service, and the many hoots they had garnered and withstood. Now I’m standing in an outhouse door buffeted by a chill mist and clad in argyle socks awaiting my just desserts. As a goad against procrastination, it has promise. Thanks, Erica.
If you’re going down, you may as well wear something you love. (Nicely written.)