Oxford life. Thirtysomething challenges. Music leanings. Anything really.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Full narrative dreams
Dreams are amazing things. I enjoy the period when I am not quite asleep and my thoughts are still lucid but crazy twists creep in.
Most dreams I have a mental snapshots, collages of my daily experience reinterpreted by a relaxing brain. Most get forgotten, and those that are remembered are fleeting moments of wierdness from my subconsciousness.
Every now and then I have a complete story, a trip through the depths of my mind, cutting and pasting segments from everywhere in order to create a story. Waking from these is wonderful. There's the "Did that really happen?" moment as I wake, then a concerted effort to remember the dream fully, followed by a wry smile as I realise that my mind's done something odd.
Last night was a case in point. I played pool, I gambled, lost, protested, got beaten up, shot in the head by Leo from West Wing, became a fugitive and escaped via my old school to Scotland in the back of a van driven by Ade Edmonson.
While we're on dreams, here's another "Thing I hate":
Dream sequences in novels.
If an author describes a dream, I skip it. If the author has something to say about a character's emotions, then say it, don't wrap it up in some namby pamby dream. Dreaming about being shot in the head by Leo does not reveal anything more than a mind drifting around it's own subconscious.
A dream cannot move a plot forward therefore it can be skipped.
Most dreams I have a mental snapshots, collages of my daily experience reinterpreted by a relaxing brain. Most get forgotten, and those that are remembered are fleeting moments of wierdness from my subconsciousness.
Every now and then I have a complete story, a trip through the depths of my mind, cutting and pasting segments from everywhere in order to create a story. Waking from these is wonderful. There's the "Did that really happen?" moment as I wake, then a concerted effort to remember the dream fully, followed by a wry smile as I realise that my mind's done something odd.
Last night was a case in point. I played pool, I gambled, lost, protested, got beaten up, shot in the head by Leo from West Wing, became a fugitive and escaped via my old school to Scotland in the back of a van driven by Ade Edmonson.
While we're on dreams, here's another "Thing I hate":
Dream sequences in novels.
If an author describes a dream, I skip it. If the author has something to say about a character's emotions, then say it, don't wrap it up in some namby pamby dream. Dreaming about being shot in the head by Leo does not reveal anything more than a mind drifting around it's own subconscious.
A dream cannot move a plot forward therefore it can be skipped.
// posted by Andy @ 10:19 am 
