I find dreams to be inspirational and so interesting, and I sometimes record them (always forget the damn amazing ones) to fit them into my plot in various methods. Anyone else do this? What do you think about it whether you do it or not?
I think it's great you can do that! I don't have interesting enough dreams to put into stories, but my sister does that sort of thing all the time. She's not really a story writer, more like an idea writer, but she gets ideas based on her dreams and jots them down. From my experience with her, your biggest trouble will be to make it understandable and fully developed. There are nuances in dreams that you subconsciously understand that your readers won't.
Nah, she prefers to keep her writings private--I'm the only one she lets read them. I've been trying to encourage her to write a full on story; she has the talent, IMO. Actually, she's a big reason I want to be a writer--I've always admired her writing skills, even though now I know they need some refinement.
I do sometimes. If I have a particularly vivid dream or just happen to remember some wrinkle that I think is cool, I try to run it over and over in my head to keep it fresh (and maybe make a little more sense out of it; my dreams are rarely particularly coherent) until I can write down the basic idea. The repetition really helps to keep track of them, and the more you train yourself to think about what you were dreaming as soon as you wake up, the more you're able to remember them. My current main project was actually seeded by a dream - no plot, just a visual that stuck with me for days. Had to come up with a whole story to justify that image
Yes, I have adapted a significant dream I had a few years back to use in the novel I'm working on. It recurs several times in the book - once in full, three times that focus on specific details, and once in a summarised form quite near the end. It runs through the whole thing like a thread. It's complicated to explain in full, but basically it's used to tie two characters together, help clue the reader into the fact that the "nice guy" is actually an antagonist, foreshadow a red herring ending, and also (hopefully more subtly!!) foreshadow the actual ending. Among other things. I've already written one version of this, back when I made my first attempt at writing a first draft. It came out well, but it was extremely emotional - somebody I care deeply for died in the original and it's always stuck with me, even though it wasn't real. I think the very genuine emotion helped me pull the writing off better than if I'd completely made something up, but damn, writing it physically hurt.
All the time! It often takes a lot of refinement once I wake up, but I find dreams to be very useful if you can remember them once you wake up.
If you mean like taking imagery or ideas from real-life dreams and then incorporating them into your novel, I think it's a great source for inspiration. But in terms of using dreams in the novel -- like, "The MC knew what course of action to take because they had a dream" -- then I think it's a bad plot move 90% of the time, because it feels like a cop-out or too convenient, although I've seen a few stories where it was handled well.
I once dreamt that all the eggs in a carton were broken, so I had to scoop the yolks back into the shells to make sure there the carton wouldn't soak through and leak when I put it back in the fridge. And the kitchen was also a ridiculously good copy of my real kitchen, I can tell you that right now. ... So yeah, I've never been able to derive any plot inspiration, but I do like my characters' dream sequences more than I like what I see on TV Seriously, even if you're writing a fantasy novel about a character with psychic powers, at least show that it's a skill that the character has to work to be able to use effectively. Is that too much to ask?
Exactly. In the instance that I'm thinking of where the dream thing worked well, it was in the 3rd Dark Materials book (by Phillip Pullman) where Lyra realizes that she has to go to the world of the dead and save her best friend. The dreams are about memories she had of her friend, and their role was to remind her of how important her friend is to her and her conscience-driven duty to save him or die trying. But they didn't magically tell her how to get there, or solve some kind of plot blockage. She already had the knowledge in the waking/non-dream world to figure out that her friend was trapped there, and to figure out the way to get there, so the dream wasn't trying to fill in those gaps. Another successful dream usage was in Dean Koontz' "Whispers." The antagonist had recurring nightmares every night due to a trauma that he couldn't remember, and the dreams were only about being trapped in a dark place with a malevolent, whispering entity. This let the reader know that there was a mysterious trauma involving said dark place, and introduced the root cause of the antagonist's issues, and the horror itself is revealed in a non-dream way later in the book. The dream helped with setup, but did not have a role of providing an answer in a cop-out, unbelievable way. Dreams can work if their role is to hammer in a character's emotions or remind them of a memory or otherwise trigger an important need or emotional issue, like a call to action. But NOT if they're used to fill in the blanks, like "the character knew what they needed to do in terms of their [weapon/location/resource/path to take/answer they wouldn't have in reality] because of their dream." Dreams aren't magic oracle plot devices, that's just stupid.
A dream I had when I was sixteen formed the foundation and direction of my entire fictional universe. It was a good dream.
I rarely remember my dreams, and when I do they tend to be really mundane. So... no. I don't use them. Would if I could, though!
Not 'story' as such but I do use feelings. I have recurring dreams where I'm caught in a tsunami and I can do nothing but watch as the wave comes towards me. It's terrifying and hopeless in a way I've never been terrified and hopeless in real life. If my characters were in a truly terrifying situation, I would try to get that feeling down in words. Actually, when I was a child I had a nightmare that I wanted to turn into a horror story. I was at some sort of summer camp, and when we arrived we were all lined up and this evil man came to tell us all that it wasn't really a summer camp with fun activities but he was going to kill us and eat us one by one. He shouted something in my face and I could smell human meat on his breath, and see chunks of it between his teeth. Maybe I should've watched fewer horror movies as a kid...
As the whole of short stories, certainly! I am burdened with a medication that has one strange upside: Spectacular, widescreen, 4DX dreams. I am regularly questioned by my doctor if I have "vivid dreams" because of this medication, to which my answer is yes, and the doctor becomes concerned because it seems that in medicalese "vivid dream" translates to "night terrors". I have to explain that, no, not night terrors, just really fuckin' kick-ass dreams, but I'm super pedantic, doc, and until you ask me with terms that actually equate to what you're saying in normal people lingo, you and I are going to dance this little dance. ... le sigh. So, yes, but the nature of dreams for me is that they are so insular and wrapped in themselves that they don't work for scenes, just short stories.
This is the same early-30s doctor who prefaces everything he says to me with for a man of your age, blah, blah, blah. I'm 46. I go to the gym 5 days a week. I look pretty good without a shirt on. I'm looking at my pudgy doctor and thinking, dude, I could snap you in half and not break a sweat, you know, for a man of my age...
I would, but my dreams are never complete narratives. I always wake up before I find out what the ending is, and can never think up a good enough ending myself...
I rarely have dreams I remember, and of the ones I can recall there is little useful in them. Probably doesn't help that I don't write fantasy. However... I did have a dream once that stuck with me. A very profound scene about a place where you could interact with people who had passed from this life before you. It was a very happy dream and I have never forgotten it. It became the basis for my first novel. I have not written a 'fantasy' story since but the (few) readers who have read the book found it enjoyable and many commented on how it had 'touched' them in a profound way. If only I would have more dreams like that!
Yeah I really don't think the occasional random nightmare of nonsense, or subconscious sexual desire is going to do much good for my writing. If I were to write such things it would be like an LSD trip, and make one question my sanity more so than it already is. So no, dreams do not influence my writings.
I think that's very good. The purest ideas I'd say. The other night I did have some cooky dream but it escapes me... It had something to do with that flipper head from guns and gazoos.. With a cravat and a stupid man glare.
I misunderstood the question. You meant do people use THEIR dreams in their novels. Well, I don't think I've ever done that (though if I get a good enough idea...) But I do use dreams themselves as a plot device. In my novel, there is a character who suddenly gets dreams that make sense in the way dreams don't, but contradict what he believes. In actuality, the dreams are flashbacks and he is unaware of the dreams' actual history. For example, when he meets someone at the market, later he dreams they killed his dad and grandpa, when he thinks they died in a blacksmith accident. There's a person named Knizor who keeps showing up in his dreams as well. It is later revealed to him that there is a special person who has direct communication with the Ristlaron (basically, a fancy, mystical way of having my characters be aware of their author) and that this person serves that purpose until a new one is awakened. Dreams of the past are one of the first signs, but as they grow more powerful, they begin to dream of the future. I also have a passage where the villain has a dream like that, implying that he could have been the next one had he not made evil decisions. Here's a passage from my book in a chapter where the character has multiple dreams in the span of it. Note that all the characters are part of a species of anthrodragons called Khrizans. The dragon looked over his black-caped shoulder, regal features hidden in the darkness. Certain nobody was watching, he darted over to the house and knocked. The door opened. Another dragon was standing there with a lantern in his hand. “Knizor?” he asked. “What are you doing here?” His mouth formed different words than the ones from his voice; underneath, a language that sounded like Khrizan was audible. However, proper nouns were not translated. Knizor came inside and shut the door. He placed the object in his hands on the table and unwrapped it. A sword, with a broad, thick, and ragged blade, and a green hilt of hewn malachite, emerged from the folds. The other dragon’s eyes widened. “Why have you shown me this sword?” “Rishta,” Knizor replied heavily, “I am entrusting it to you. The Kenjai have fallen, but they will return as long as my brother still whispers from the grave.” “Surely the Kenjai will never rise again,” Rishta said. “There are none left.” “There are four,” Knizor sighed. “Jai Dazvru, Jai Uthgal, Jai Rhathkash, and Jai Nazagroth still live.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Surely with only four Kenjai remaining, the order can never return,” Rishta protested. “I have foreseen it,” Knizor replied gravely. “And that is why I will trust you to protect Thugron through the generations of your family, when the Kenjai shall again seek the Elder Swords.” “What of your own sword, Siothra?” Rishta asked of the white sword that was at Knizor’s side. “Will you also pass it down to your family, that the Kenjai will not obtain it?” “No,” Knizor said. “It shall be buried with me. In time, one descended from me will fall under my brother’s influence, and become a Kenjai. It would not be safe to leave one of the Swords to by posterity.” “Your foresight is great indeed,” Rishta marveled. Knizor nodded, then wrapped the sword. He placed a hand on Rishta’s shoulder. “Keep it hidden. Keep it secure.” “It shall be done,” Rishta said. “Farewell, my friend.” Knizor exited and the scene changed. The Khrizan awoke in the middle of the night. “Shanara,” he asked in an urgent whisper, “do you hear that?” This time, his voice matched the movements of his lips. He spoke modern Dragonese. His wife sat up. “Yes,” she said. “Rissa, you don’t think…” Rissa took the sword he kept on the dresser and crept out with her. Rissa lit a candle and handed it to Shanara. “Who goes there?” he called. He turned the corner to see a startled burglar with a sack, already full with many of their possessions. “Stay back!” the burglar warned, brandishing a sword. The weapon in his hand was Thugron. “Hey!” Rissa roared. “That’s mine!” He lunged at the robber and they began a fierce duel. “Leave him alone!” Shanara shouted. “Drop the sword!” A strike hit her in the chest and she cried out. Both drakes, startled, stopped fighting. In horror, Rissa looked at his wounded wife. A gash across her chest poured blood from her dying heart. Rissa’s eyes moved from his unblemished blade to Thugron. The edge was highlighted in dripping red. Rissa rushed to his wife, and began to speak to her in frantic murmurs, but even as he did, he felt her life slip away completely. Rage consumed him and he looked up. Thugron lay on the floor, a puddle of blood underneath its blade. Rissa saw the murderer dash out the door. Blind anger seized Rissa and he roared in pursuit of the killer. Rissa, no! a voice called, but Rissa paid it no heed. The thief flew over the rooftops, fleeing for his life as Rissa took to the air to give chase, vengeance completely occupying his mind. “Murderer!” Rissa screamed after him. “Murderer!” The robber screamed as he fled, and three other dragons in the distance heard and began to fly also. Rissa’s wings beat furiously, carrying him across the city. Finally, Rissa swiped at the intruder’s foot, causing a disabling gash which caused his enemy to scream and crash into an alley. Rissa landed with a thump in front of the dragon who lay before him on the ground and brought his sword down on his head. Rissa stood staring at the body of the dead drake, and then he threw his head to the sky and screamed. He collapsed to his knees and wept, the sword clattering to the dirt. The three dragons landed, walking towards him wearing police uniforms. “Step aside, step aside,” their leader barked, shoving Rissa away. He stopped and gazed on the corpse in silence. An invisible storm seemed to gather around him. “Who did this?” he asked. “I did,” Rissa replied, breathing heavily. “Do you know who I am?” the captain said. “No,” Rissa said. “That dragon broke into my house and killed my wife. He is a murderer!” “I am afraid that by seeking revenge, you have become the murderer,” the captain replied coldly. “I am placing you under arrest in the name of governor Khavas and of our emperor, Angriad II.” “What?” Rissa exclaimed, lunging away to dodge the other dragons, but he was too slow. They seized his arms and held him fast. “I am Vazarn Arshavar,” the captain said coldly, “and I never miss a capture. No escape either. And you have robbed me of my record. By incarcerating you, I will redeem myself.” “I’ve got two kids!” Rissa yelled. “Their mother was just murdered while they were sleeping! If you take me away, they’ll have no one!” “You should have thought of that,” Vazarn replied unrelentingly. “Take him away.” Rissa found himself imprisoned in a cell. When the guards had left, he whispered something under his breath and appeared in his house. Wasting no time, he grabbed Thugron and dashed to his sons’ room. “Nat! Ginzaekh!” he said. He shook Ginzaekh awake. “Pack your things. We’re leaving.” “Why?” Nat asked groggily. “No time to explain,” Rissa said. “Just get everything you can and put it in the magic bag, now.” “Where’s mom?” little Ginzaekh asked. Rissa’s throat caught and tears filled his eyes. “I’ll tell you later. Just pack.” He went to the den to get Shanara’s body. He would bury her later. When he saw her, he broke down and sobbed. Ginzaekh woke up. He touched the scales below his eyes. They were moist. What did I just dream? he wondered. He hoped he’d never have a horrible dream like that again. He was just thinking about how Rissa was the name of his grandfather when the details of the rest of the dream flew from his memory. Puzzled, he racked his brains a bit in an attempt to remember the dream again, but he could only remember there was something about a dragon named Knizor. Finally, he gave up and lay back down to go back to sleep. “Mom,” Ginzaekh asked the next day, “What was my grandma’s name? On Dad’s side, I mean.” “I don’t know, dear,” she replied. “They never spoke of her. Painful subject, most likely.” Ginzaekh considered this. “I wish he and Dad were still alive.” A tear came to her eye. “I do too.” Ginzaekh decided not to say anything. He didn’t want to make his mother upset. Instead, he wiped his knife on his apron and kept cleaving meat. It was just a dream, anyway, he thought. But something about it made him unsure. Zarakharn was making good time. Through teleporting, flying, and teleporting into one of his bases to rest, and repeating the process, he had almost reached Rer and was now flying there from east of Kaesivar. Two days on nonstop flight and magical conveyance and he was almost there. He breathed a sigh of relief that it was that simple. All he had to do was find the crystal and take it home. After all, nothing could have happened to it. Vazarn brandished his sword triumphantly. “Rissa Arrissa,” he gloated. “You were foolish to return to this place, and think I would have forgotten you.” “And you were foolish to hunt my family,” the old snake retorted. “That night, I learned the difference between defense and revenge. Nothing endangers my family.” “Your sons are grown,” Vazarn sneered. “Surely they need no protection from me, a just dragon with no quarrel against them.” “True, it is not them I protect any longer,” Rissa said. “But still I protect something that was passed down through generations. I cannot abandon it lest it fall into the wrong hands.” “Your family heirlooms mean nothing to me,” Vazarn snarled. “You’re a dangerous drake, and I will see your life ended, that the world be rid of you.” “Do you still believe me to be a killer?” Rissa asked. “I swore never again to take the life of another dragon again after that night. You think me dangerous? I am. Consider, then, why you are still alive. It is because I have always spared you when you and I crossed paths.” “Because you are a coward,” Vazarn replied scornfully. “Flying, flying, flying away from me all these years, hiding, running, sneaking. And not only that— vanishing. You’re a sorcerer, Rissa. That’s your secret.” “Then you should know your quest is futile,” Rissa pleaded. “Let me go.” “I, Chief Vazarn, have never lost a dragon!” he replied, puffing out his chest proudly. “Not a single one has not been brought to justice by me, except… for you.” He no longer spoke with pride. “You, Risssa Arrissa, are a stain on my record, and I will wipe it clean.” “If you continue to pursue me,” Rissa said sadly, “you will find only disappointment. I cannot abandon my mission. Once I sought revenge. Never again. Once I robbed you of glory. You sought revenge. You hold that same grudge to this day. Think, Vazarn, who will glory in your triumph? Gone are the days when every dragon from Azirhk to Karka lived in fear of Rissa Arrissa, the murderer that Captain Vazarn failed to apprehend. Never since have I taken the life of any dragon, be they drake or phoenix, young or old, Khrizan or otherwise. Kill me now, and no one will care. Let me live, and no one will care.” “I will care!” Vazarn roared. He lunged at Rissa with his sword. Rissa dodged his blows while speaking a sentence in an arcane, unknown language, and vanished before Vazarn’s blade swiped his neck in half. Vazarn gave a mighty roar and threw the sword to the ground. “You can’t escape me forever!” he screamed. Ginzaekh clamped his hands over his ears in the dream. Everything went black, and the dream shifted. He continued to sleep without interruption.
Oddly enough, I believe that can happen in real life. My grandfather, for example, who owns a plastics factory, once dreamed that the factory was on fire. He woke up and called his foreman, who lived a block away. The foreman wasn't happy, because it was the middle of the night, but he went over and found that some kind of electrical failure had caused some of the machines to catch fire and it was quickly spreading. Because they caught it early, they could contain it and saved the factory. That and other anecdotes cause me to believe that it can happen in real life, but in fiction, it just seems really forced and improbable. Despite my acceptance of the phenomenon, I can't stand to see it as a plot device.
