What Dreams May Come

I’m often asked by “civilians” where I get my stories from. The answer is easy. From everywhere. Sometimes even from dreams.

I’ve culled a lot of scenes from dreams I’ve had over the years, but last night was quite a different experience for me. Last night, I had a story, fully formed, play-out like a movie almost to its completion. Emphasis on almost.

It was something out of my wheelhouse for the most part. An odd, subtly supernatural murder mystery that was steeped more in Gillian Flynn than, say, Stephen King. Heavy on relationship drama, coming of age angst, and more than a little bit driven by the spirit of Nabokov, if you catch my meaning.

I’d rather not go into details, as I think I really have no choice but to try and write this beast. I mean, it came to me as a gift. It would be rude to not accept it.

So I will be delving into unfamiliar territory, which is both exhilarating and frightening all at once.

Oh, and that emphatic word from earlier — almost. See, I don’t know who the murderer is, as there were conflicting clues within the dream. If I’m being perfectly honest, I am compelled to write this damn thing just so I can find out who the culprit is. With luck, Landon Connors may come along to help sort it out.

We’ll see, soon enough.

We shall see.

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