This is a true story.
Two nights ago, I had a dream I could fly. I opened my arms wide, pulled the wind toward me and felt my feet lift off the ground. It was glorious. With my engineering-trained mind I quickly sought practical applications.
First, my husband and I went out at night—so the neighbors wouldn’t see—and I picked all of the apples, red and ripe, off the top branches, dropping them one by one into my husband’s waiting hands. Next, I inspected the flat portion of our roof. Never buy a house with a flat roof. We worry about that 10 x 10 section constantly. Then I decided to fly out to Seattle to visit my son. But about three minutes into the flight—I was traveling at approximately 10miles/hour—I realized that Seattle is 3000 miles away. That’s a 300 hour flight.
Hearing a roar overhead, I decided to fly into the clouds and hitch a ride on a passing jumbo jet.
NO!
Those things travel at 600 miles/hour. My head would get blown off.
I suppose even flying has its practical limitations.
In the final image of the dream, I was in the future and my son had a three-year-old daughter. I had volunteered to watch her for the day. As the scene opened, we were gleefully jumping on my son’s bed. Then I taught her to fly. “Open your arms, like this.” I opened my arms, “and pull the wind to yourself.” How quickly she learned.
“Flying is so much fun, Nana.”
When I woke, I immediately understood the dream. I can do the impossible. The choice is mine.
Last night, I had a second dream. I was agitated and rushed. I slipped the car into reverse, stomped down on the accelerator and backed out of the parking space so recklessly that I plowed into the car behind me one row over. Crying and distraught, I called the police and reported the accident. My silver Chevy Malibu—a huge tank of a car with bench seats and a V8—was undamaged. The next morning, again jittery and overwrought by . . . whatever . . . I backed out and hit another car. That night I hit a third vehicle in exactly the same way, this one belonging to Omar, a guide who had been helping me by showing me around town. “You totaled my car!” He grabbed his head in distress. “How am I going to get to work!”
I was taken before a judge.
“I’m so sorry. I was stupid. This is all my fault.”
She took away my driver’s license.
“I don’t know why I did this. I was just so upset and angry.”
I was sentenced to counseling. “You could have hurt someone,” she said. “When I’m satisfied you’re no longer a danger, I’ll give your license back.”
I woke. Immediately, I understood the dream. I am powerful. I can use my power to destroy things and hurt the people I love.
The choice is mine.
My power is my creativity. Most importantly my power is my writing. With my stories I can reveal truth to those who would hide from it. I can comfort the soul of a hurting person. I can unveil oppression. I can say, I understand, and I stand with you. With my stories I give my heart word-wings to fly where I cannot go. And on these wings my readers soar to longed-for futures.
Or I can ravage tender souls with hate and lust and violence.
The choice is mine.
This is a true story.
Two nights ago, I had a dream I could fly. I opened my arms wide, pulled the wind toward me and felt my feet lift off the ground. It was glorious. With my engineering-trained mind I quickly sought practical applications.
Why was the book Dune by Frank Herbert so successful?
Most people would probably say world-building.
I woke at two in the morning from a nightmare in which I was being hunted by an assassin. In the dream, desperate to get away, I hid on the third floor of an abandoned building. I remember looking out the dirty windows and seeing the assassin below in the parking lot looking up at me. He was tracking my cell phone.
These are my goto gems, the sentences that keep me writing, that whisper, “you can do better.”
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A novel of taut suspense and danger from New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin.
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Hi Kidd, So true about the power of writing. Great post!