The other night, I had a dream. It wasn’t just any old dream, though. It was extraordinary in several respects.
For one, I rarely even remember my dreams. On average, I recall maybe one or two dreams per month, and even then, they are often fleeting, swift seabirds flying undetected, beyond the radar screen of my consciousness. I might remember them for a few minutes, perhaps an hour at the outside. The dream I had the other night, though, remains fresh and vibrant in my mind, holding on and unwilling to let go.
It started innocuously enough. I was driving along a dirt road, somewhere in the wooded hills of rural Vermont, where I’ve lived for the past dozen years. It was evening, the light of day fading, slowly, into dusk. The road was isolated, off the beaten path–not another car in sight. I had my window rolled down, and the sounds of the encroaching night were all around me: the distant call of a hoot owl, returned moments later by a friend; the high-pitched, almost electronic song of the spring peepers as they stirred from their winter-long slumber; the whisper of the wind, rustling the dried-out fallen leaves from the previous autumn. Early springtime in Vermont.
The thing was–I had a sense of being lost. I didn’t know quite where I was–not exactly–or where I was going. I was just . . . driving. But that was when a sudden realization dawned on me. I was going the wrong way. Why or how I knew this, I wasn’t sure. No new landmark had cropped up; I still felt lost, uncertain where I was headed. It was just a strong, forceful conviction: I needed to turn around.
That would be easier said than done. Back roads in Vermont are notorious for their lack of turnabouts. It might take miles to find one. The stretch I was on contained no houses, no driveways, no intersections with other roads, and the road itself was too narrow to turn the car around. I was forced to keep driving, in the wrong direction (or so I told myself), my heart rate increasing, an undefinable tension rising within me.
Suddenly, I spotted it–a slight widening of the road just ahead. It was apparently a man-made section designed specifically for turning your car around. (Who would have gone to the trouble of putting that in, way out here?) I didn’t bother signaling. Who would see me? The owls? I doubted they’d mind the oversight.
I veered to the left, toward the turnabout. I just needed to pull in, then back out and head in the direction from where I had come. But I didn’t step on the brake. I just turned the wheel to the left, confident I wasn’t going too fast.
I was. Immediately the car began to skid, tires sliding along gravel and dirt. I slammed on the brakes–too late. There was no way to stop in time.
Just beyond the turnabout, the road gave way to a small, narrow depression, perhaps a foot or two deep, cut through by the trickling of a shallow stream and flanked by a thick copse of trees and shrubs, their still bare limbs reaching out as if attempting to catch the car and prevent a potential disaster. If only they could . . .
As the car’s front wheels left the security of the road, suspended momentarily in midair, I felt a sick sense of inevitability. I was about to crash into the depression. The car might even tip or roll over. Would I be trapped? As if in response, another hoot owl cried out in the rapidly darkening twilight.
The car careened over the edge, and I braced myself. The force of the impact would be significant. The stream appeared to be only a few inches deep, so at least I wouldn’t be submerged.
Or so I thought.
There was no sudden, crashing jolt of fender and metal against hard, rocky New England earth. There was only a sudden splash, and a complete and overwhelming darkness.
The stream had somehow been something more, something it hadn’t appeared to be. The car sank, deeper, impossibly fast, into what had become a bottomless pool of dark, still water.
I’m sinking, I thought, looking for something, anything, to see, to grab hold of. That’s when I realized. My driver’s-side window was closed–no water was pouring in. How had that happened? I hadn’t remembered closing it. But what good would it do me now? It served as nothing but a death trap. At the rate I was falling, I had probably sunk several hundred feet already. There was no way to force open the door–the pressure of the water pushing against it would be far too great. I took a breath, tried to open the window, knowing I had to make a break for it before I sank deeper still. It wouldn’t budge. I scrambled, looking for something to break it with, but the car continued to sink at an alarming rate. Was I a thousand feet from the surface now? Two thousand? There was no way to tell.
I felt a rising tide of panic. I could see nothing–it was black, the most complete blackness I had ever experienced. There was only absence–of light, of sound, of anything life-giving and life-sustaining. And the air supply wouldn’t last long.
No longer thinking clearly, I tried breaking the window with my elbow, tried to pry open the door. Nothing worked. I gasped, the air already dwindling, and the car continued to sink . . .
That’s when I woke up, sat bolt upright, breathing in short, choppy gasps. It took a moment to register that the darkness around me was nothing more than the soft curtain of night, and not the impenetrable black hole of a bottomless pool on the side of some preternatural back road in the hill country of Vermont.
I got out of bed, walked around the house for a while, as if attempting to assure myself that I was still here, still alive. I didn’t sleep well the remainder of the night.
****************
Later, once the sun came up and the songbirds greeted the day with a springtime chorus, I began to think of the dream in a new, less sinister, light. The way it had unfolded was like a story. It might have been the beginning of a novel (or the end!). And where had it come from? What had caused me to dream of such a scenario to begin with? (Oddly, it resembled a dream from my childhood. Perhaps my subconscious is telling me something about my feelings for water!)
Where does any dream come from? Are our dreams and nightmares merely chance occurrences, the whims and megrims of our slumbering mind? Or do they originate from a more personal place, perhaps symbolizing deep-rooted fears, too long denied, or elaborate metaphors stemming from life experiences or long-held aspirations? Maybe they are even offering us brief glimpses of alternate selves, parallel worlds, or previous lives. Science may never truly know the answers.
Or maybe, just maybe, they serve as reminders, teachers of a sort, guiding us along on the right path. And perhaps, specifically, my dream was trying to tell me something about the storytelling process, a truth I sometimes forget.
The creative life, to a large degree, is much like falling into an abyss. I learned early on that, try as I might, I cannot take the reins of the creative process. I cannot force ideas that aren’t there or force characters to behave in ways they are unwilling or unable to. Ideas come when they come, out of the ether–out of the depths. Sometimes they resonate, sometimes they don’t. But they are always capricious, even shy, revealing themselves only when they’re ready.
I first took the plunge into creative writing years ago, when I was a student in the second grade. Anytime I have tried to force the issue, to grab the wheel and direct the flow, to steer the car along that country back road of the mind rather than let the road take me where it will, I have hit the proverbial brick wall, mired in a tangle of undersea snarls and weeds. It is only when I can swim with the current, fall gently into the deep flumes of my imagination that the story flows and the characters speak in truth and with sincerity.
The abyss of the writing life isn’t a scary thing. It may seem like a nightmare at times, but in actuality it’s not something to fight and resist and fear. We just need to take that jump, go over the edge, and fall . . .
. . . right into the waiting arms of our muse.
Thanks so much for reading!
–Mike