I've blogged before about the idea of using dreams in writing and stories, although it's a sad fact that with four children, I don't get to remember many dreams. The days of hitting the snooze button, or even having one of those long, lazy lie-ins are so far in my past that I can barely remember them.
However, I'm just suffering (not very bravely) through my third bout of tonsillitis in three weeks. Google tonsillitis, and you'll be informed that it's largely a childhood affliction, but never mind. I finished one course of penicillin on Christmas Day, and here I am on the 30th, in day two of another bout. Last night my sleep was very disturbed, and tainted with the weirdness that comes with a high temperature.
I dreamt I was reading a story; it wasn't a genre that would usually appeal to me, and in the weird way that dreams work, I was watching it rather than scanning words on a page. There were many sets of characters, including an extremely sinister man called Nick (I wonder where that came from), and two lesbian couples, and it was set in the 30's, a period about which I know practically nothing. But it was gripping and compulsive - I couldn't wait to see what would happen next. I woke up straddling dreamland and reality to the extent that I knew I had to write this dream down (though it was quite epic in length) but I was afraid it would be plagiarism because I was convinced that I had read it.
Of course, a few hours later, not only do I realise that it was rambling and confused in the way of all dreams, and that it wasn't the wonder I thought it was, but that most of it has faded. I'm not sure dreaming is the way to go for inspiration for me...but if you're lacking the creative spark, I can recommend a dose of tonsillitis to mess with your mind!
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