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| Nicola Samori, School of Pan, 2011 |
Often when I wake out of dreams the first thing I do is write down the fragments floating around in my head. The problem is if I don't do so sometimes the dream scenarios become trapped and refuse to make way for what I need to be thinking about and working on. There's about twenty or so ragged and dog-eared notebooks full of these which I revisit from time to time. I thought maybe I would start sharing some of them here because sometimes these scenarios blossom into bigger things. There's stacks of them in the third Saurimonde book where I took written pieces of my actual nightmares, rearranged the elements of six or seven separate instances into one semi-cohesive supernatural nightmare sequence, then I added in the mythology and remixed them again (sort of a mild version of the cut-up technique). I think maybe that's why when they work, they have resonance.
So here's the fragment from this morning. I find the idea being trapped or lost within the cycles of incarnation is a theme which often permeates my subconscious.
"The room was lit
by the muted television set and a haze of bluish smoke hovered in
the air from the cigarette they shared between them. She didn't think she had ever stared into someones eyes and seen herself so clearly before. The feeling frightened her
because it spoke of other times and places where they had known each
other. Stroking the plane from his eyebrow to cheekbone with her fingertips, she
chose her words with care. “I know you.”
“So you are
beginning to remember...?”
Burying her her head into the nape of his neck, she whispered against his skin, “You are not the
only accidental guest on this darkened planet -- I was never meant to
be here either.”
Will it go into the next book? Maybe. Speaking of the next book, I've got the outline down and it will center around the enigmatic north porch of Notre Dame de Paris, the Belle Epoch alchemists, signs, portents, and chance encounters -- some of my favorite pet obsessions. Most likely it will be a supernatural thriller which I am kind of excited about writing. I feel the need to re-root myself back into the twenty-first century for a while, and put the puzzle pieces together in a different configuration. It might not work. One never knows. I loved the outline and the ideas behind Demon Priest, and it had a cracking opening, but three chapters in I realized I had made a fatal error -- I'm not a strong enough writer to narrate a whole book from a male perspective. At least not that kind of book. But that is how you learn, and possibly I'll use that first chapter for something else one day, or figure how to come at that story from another point of view when the time is right.
Here's the prologue from Demon Priest: (another snippet of a dream).
"There was that noise
again. The throbbing of drums echoed across the valley punctuated
by faraway screams. Stirring, she opened her eyes to see the bright
spots of firelight glowing like fireflies in the distance. Smiling to herself, she shifted on the ground near the mouth of the shallow
cave. Let them celebrate me, she mused. Let them have
this night to shout and dance and to make love under the stars.
Soon they would be no more, like the others who came before them.
She was tired now -- so very tired. The time was near when she would
retreat into the cool earth where she would slumber and
dream in endless darkness. No one would find her there. She knew these
lands like no other and indeed, she had been here before the
mountains had been formed, when there was only a vast, endless ocean.
Then, the tectonic plates crashed together and what was molten soon cooled as slow moving glaciers formed the first
valleys. Like herself, the terrain changed and was born anew, only to
become old again. The humans called out to her, shouting her name while waving their cups in the air. A giant effigy burned sending sparks
flying out into the night sky as the smaller bonfires were
extinguished. I will return, she promised as the weariness took
hold of her again. I always do. These humans mean little more to
me than insects now. Sighing one last time against the dirt, she murmured, But first, please grant me
oblivion..."
There's not a huge amount of news to be had. Currently, I'm finishing up a project I should have completed ages ago. It's tricky and complicated and doesn't want to follow any known set of screenwriting rules -- but it is a challenge -- and I do
love a challenge. I only have a certain amount of time out here to get it completed so it's been occupying most of my waking attention.
The sun is rising, the desert is stretching its sun-kissed skin, there's coffee brewing in the kitchen, and I need to get down to writing for the day...
Much love from where the worlds touch,
S - xx
