Dream a Little Dream of Me

Last night I had a story dream.

Ever since I was little I’ve had wild, strange, fantastical, intricate dreams. I call them story dreams because—you guessed it—they unfold like stories. What’s unique about the dreams is that I am never myself; I’m always either an entirely different person, going through the story blindly, or I am a third person observer, with sometimes a little bit of limited omniscience. Don’t get me wrong, I also have normal dreams like walking around in public naked, but story dreams have been a part of my nights my entire life.

It’s not a secret to anyone I encounter in life, from strangers to friends, that I’m a writer. Lots of people ask me this certain, specific question, over and over again. I’ve grown to hate it. Not because it’s a bad or invasive question, it’s very reasonable. It’s also not a hatred directed at any of you; how could you possibly know my aversion to a very logical question to ask a writer? The reason I dread hearing it is because I never know exactly how to answer it. I feel like I’m lying every time I give an answer. “So why do you write?”

Well, you know, I just do.

I don’t know how to tell you more than that. The truth is, there isn’t really a reason, not in the way people are expecting. What I can say is that one source of inspiration for my writing has always been my story dreams. I have notebooks filled with descriptions of them, sometimes including (crudely done) drawings. There’s so many, it would take all of Santa’s elves working day and night to ever have them all published in my lifetime. I’ll never be able to write them all.

Not all of my stories are inspired by my story dreams, mind you. I get ideas and develop stories in a myriad of ways. I sometimes joke that you could leave me alone in an empty room with no sound or light and I’ll scratch a story into the floor about the darkness. It’s an instinct in me, the same way it’s an instinct for my lungs to take in my breath. So having dreams inject my brain at night with story after story sometimes feels like cheating at times.

If you’re wondering about it, the answer is yes—Sought in Sense is a product of a story dream. The dream wasn’t the entire book, that would have been one hell of a morning after, but Cory did insert herself into my head while I was sleeping one night when I was in high school. I guess it’s fitting, given how much Cory loves to sleep! Perhaps one of her older dream visions, one she may have even forgotten upon waking up, was of a young 16-year-old girl ice-skating with her friends on her birthday, or taking Myspace Angles pics and writing angst-ridden lyrics for her edgy punk rock band. I hope she told Kelly about it; Kelly would laugh for eternity at my pink and purple walled room.

Last night, my story dream was about two people who were opposite forces in a parallel universe. One was complete destruction and chaos, and the other was pure creation and purpose; neither of them knew of their own identities, so naturally and tragically (as all my stories often go), they fell in love. Now that I’m finished with work for the day, I’m going to go write the details down in my latest dream notebook.

Hobey-ho, my fellow dreamers,

Sam

Telling Stories about Storytelling

I have a good friend who has three young kids. One is an infant but the other two are older, one going into 6th and the other into 7th. About once a week I see them at my friends house, and we have a tradition, of sorts: each of the older kids sits down with me and talks to me about the books they are reading, and we read some of them out loud together. It seems simple and perhaps a little strange if you’re not used to having friends with kids, but I have to say that there’s nothing like the feeling of enjoying a good book with a child.

The eldest is far advanced for her grade level and reads YA novels. She could probably begin reading adult novels by the time she hits high school, but I doubt her mom or I would be happy with that (side-eye). She’s also confessed to me once that she used to write songs and poems, and once loved a series of books so much she asked if I would help her write what was essentially a fanfiction of the story. It might strike some as odd, but this thirty-something-year-old writer really considers this twelve-year-old my reading buddy.

Her younger brother could not be more opposite. When his mom and I first became friends, he hated reading and writing. If you listen to him tell it now, he “still does.” However, after meeting the family my experience working with reading institutes and teaching helped me identify his likely problem almost immediately—he is classically dyslexic. Once his mom was aware of this and began working with doctors and his teachers, hiring a private tutor as well, his reading skills improved dramatically. Now, as he exits the 5th grade, he’s reading the Harry Potter books for the first time, and can do it on his own (though often has to be prodded to do so by his mother to begin).

When I was in grad school I had to read The Storytelling Animal by Jonathon Gottschall (great read—pick it up). The book details how human beings are creatures of story; storytelling is woven into our existence so finely and tightly as to be almost invisible to us most of the time, despite the fact that we spend a majority of our time day by day engaging with “story” like structures. Think about it: our news shows create snippets of story to sell each segment, our commercials tell simple and even staggeringly complex stories within 30 seconds to sell us products, our sports have commentators describing the game’s story (who’s the underdog, who’s playing fair, who is doing well or not well) for our enjoyment. Everywhere you look in humanity, story is present.

This isn’t the only reason, but it’s one of the reasons at least that I am so happy I met this family and became friends with this mom who believes in the importance of inspiring and encouraging a love of reading and writing in her children. One day, I hope to be able to foster the same relationship between my own kids and storytelling. I’d like to think they’ll sit with me like my friend’s kids do now, but perhaps they won’t want to sit with their mom reading things like Twilight or Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. And if that’s the case, I sure hope some of my beloved, lifelong friends will pick up the mantel and sit with them in my stead.

With love and continuous gratitude,

Sam