I dream...

They say your dreams are your subconscious resolving conflicts and putting the world to rights while you sleep. My night time dreams are usually just weird, colourful and complex, leaping about in time and space.

Love Heart
found at the Christian Writers Conference 

Writing can be a bit like dreaming, in that your words can be influenced by what is going on in life.

Last Wednesday evening at the monthly zoom meeting of the the Saltburn Writers Group. We started with a free write using the words “I dream…” as a prompt.

A free write is a great way to dump ideas on the page and clear your thoughts. Sometimes you can find the gem of a hidden sentence or idea in the middle which can be developed later.

I scratched my pen on the page, a little dismayed the ink didn’t flow – would I waste the whole minute finding a pen that worked?

When after some harsh scribbling it woke from its dreamy slumber, I wrote the start of the poem below.

I’ve dreamt of writing a book for a long time and although there is still much hard work ahead it actually seems possible. As I share in the writing success of other friends I’m beginning to believe. If they can do it so can I.

I hope you like my little poem and you never know if you do enjoy my words maybe one day in the not-so-distant future you will be able to hold them in a book!

 

 

A sign from the Primadonna Festival

I dream of a pen that writes smoothly

gliding across paper

spilling ideas with the ink-flow

never-ending narrative

a story to be told

 

I dream of crisp white parchment

being magically covered in words

long words,

short words

intelligent and coherent

 

I dream of everything

coming together

words and ideas

forming books

bound printed words

collected in one place

with a shiny cover

 

I dream of seeing my name

not in lights

but boldly printed

with a compelling title

attracting you

to reach out

 

Found on Facebook

            I dream of a book

that dances off the shelf

landing into your hand

caressed with longing

and intrigue

as you unfurl its pages

 

I dream of my words

reaching your heart

making a lasting impression

indelible

connecting

perhaps

inspiring your own dreams

The musings of a would-be memoirist

 Sometimes it’s just too hard to write

                and my meandering sentences

                                don’t find a place

                                                to settle.

Ideas flit like butterflies

                my attention

                                                wanders

aimlessly

                                from place

                to place                                quite far away

                                                and separate.

How can I join the dots

                                and focus?

 

My self-sabotage is legendary

                at least in my own head

                                where I am the star of my own show.

 

And yet all too often writing is just too hard…

 

How do I convey to you

                the complexities

                                of my thought process?

 

I was told once

                I was ordinary

                                Everyone feels the same way,

 

I was affronted by that!

 

Didn’t he know I was special?

                Unique,

                                a true revolutionary,

                                                trailblazing pioneer!

To be ordinary,

                like everybody else?

                                Oh, the horror!

 

I want to stand out … and yet

                so often I want to hide and not be noticed

                                comparison could be unfavourable

                                                and what if no one understands?

                                               

Is that why it is so hard to write?

 

Can I find the time?

                Do I carve out minutes

                                for my-self indulgent

                                                twaddle?

Will anybody care?

 

Sometimes it’s just too hard to write,

                until I pick up my pen

                                and spoil this pristine page with scribble.

 

I’m going to need another notebook

                for the good stuff

                                while this will be hidden

 

Unless - I publish anyway

                and become the viral sensation,

                                that I obviously deserve to be.

 

But then it doesn’t happen

                and I wallow

                                I throw the pens

                                                I tear the paper

                                I stamp my feet, collapse in a heap.

 

It’s difficult to write when you are crying

                although I’ve mastered the art of while I drive

 

Tears flow freely like the ideas,

                the words that tumble

                                while I have no pen to hand

                                                are amazingly fluent and creative

                                award winning literature

 

But here and now as I doodle

                a flower

                                a box

                                                a dreamy white cloud

 

It’s just too hard to write

                so I give up

                                   and make a cup of tea instead.