I was dreaming about walking on a beach. It wasn’t a “day at the beach” kind of dream; there was a definite undercurrent of foreboding. Something was about to happen.
But what was it?
I’ll never know. My phone pinged announcing a text message and that was the end of the story. My friends all know not to call or text me early in the morning, but they occasionally forget. It’s largely because for years I was a MORNING person — hitting the gym at 6am and running off to my office by 8:30. Now my office is in my apartment. My alarm goes off at 8, which makes sense because I rarely go to bed before midnight. I go to the gym at the civilized hour of 9, after checking my email and feeding the cat.
When my work schedule changed, my sleep scheduled changed and so did my prime dreamtime. All my life, I’ve remembered my dreams — two, three or more times a week…. I’m astonished when people say they never remember their dreams. It’s seems very sad. My dreams are like stories I tell myself. They don’t always make sense, but they are often insightful and sometimes they inspire short stories.
Do your dreams inspire your fiction?
The last hour of so before I wake up, when I hover between sleep and wakefulness, I often resolve plot problems in a novel or come up with an unexpected angle for a freelance assignment. Useful stuff!
So back to that beach —who or what was lurking? Was a giant wave about to devour the shore or would a mysterious stranger approach from the dunes? I hope I get back there tonight and find out.