I woke up this morning from a series of two dreams, supposedly interconnected but, really, they were only so in the vaguest sense, feeling incredibly troubled by them and almost not wanting to face the day due to their nature. Those of you who know me personally know that I had a fiancee pass away a little over a year ago; he had lymphoma and was going through chemotherapy when he contracted e.coli. It was a process of about three days, rushed to the hospital and having his body shut down slowly, painfully, until all efforts to maintain normal functions were basically futile. By association now, hospitals will always give my stomach a very unpleasant turn, and its these sorts of images that will occasionally work their way into my dreams and leave me stuck for a little bit in a darker time.
That’s a hell of a way to start a post, right? And it doesn’t have much to do with writing, except for the fact that, apparently, after my dark moment, my response to these sorts of dreams is: wait, I can use this for a story. Part of me feels bad, at first, that I think these dreams that recall up one of the hardest parts of my life could be…manipulated into just another piece of writing, but, really, why shouldn’t it? Writing can be just as much a therapy as anything else, and if being able to construct something out of these manifestations of my subconsciousness, then why shouldn’t I? All the best writing is rooted in something personal, something meaningful, something from deep within the author that gives them the perspective they have.
So I suppose after that, what makes me almost feel bad is the fact that what it’s inspiring could very well just turn out to be like a bad, bad horror movie. Brian loved bad horror movies, though, so I feel he’d still be honoured.
The first part of the dream seemed to propose the question to me that perhaps the plug hadn’t been pulled and there was work being done in trying to restore him back to normal. If this was a week after the disease hit, it would make sense. Over a year, though, is pretty impossible, but, in the dream, I remember actually feeling so much hope and a little bit of betrayal that I didn’t know. When I feel such emotions strongly through a dream, it lingers, and it got me thinking of a story of a scientist, about to lose her lover, and her attempts to keep him going, keep him alive, or perhaps even bring him back. A popular plot convention, sure, but I don’t often see it where it’s the man who is dying and the woman who is going slowly crazy in her attempts to use science to bring something back that can never be restored. Typical, but I think about writing this and think about what a release it would be and, in a way, a method of reminding myself of the importance of letting go of some things, but holding on to what actually can remain, and I think it would be good for me.
The second part took a very odd deviation, and became, somehow, about the death of a friend rather than a lover, and how the main character (me in the dream, I suppose) suddenly began to see terrible images that hinted at the real cause of her friend’s death, which was brutal and under the hands of some guy. The thing that struck me about this dream were the disturbing visual, the Silent Hill-esque flashes that character was having about the violent nature of the death. This one is even more like a horror film and deviated far off the trail of the deeply personal natural of the first part, but it still seemed a valuable consideration for a plot.
I’ve been writing so much more horror than I ever really though I would lately. I’m not sure how I feel about that, since I don’t necessarily read a lot of horror and it isn’t a genre I’m too terribly familiar with. But the stuff I’ve been churning out is fairly good, if I may say so myself, and, by the sounds of it, it might actually be pretty good for me, too.