Dream a little dream

Dream a little Dream









One of my favorite books is The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I’m not even sure why this book resonates with me so much, because by simple description, it would not have been anything I would have picked up.



But after reading it, I had to read her other book and was disappointed that she’d only written two novels. She’d written some earlier non-fiction, but at the time I had wrinkled my noise at this, not wanting anything to do with non-fiction.


Then recently another book appeared by both her and her daughter. It appeared to somewhat be a travel narrative. I have been listening to it.


It is a travel narrative, and a bit of a spiritual journey and a bit memoir and a bit more. It makes me think, why do I worry about what I write? But it has also prompted me to ask myself much bigger questions: Why do I want to write at all? Shouldn’t I pick the kind of writing I want to do? Why aren’t I so introspective as these two women are?


Some of the problems is that each time I ask myself any one of these questions, I arrive at a different answer. It is most annoying.


They have become significant and nagging questions to me in particular in light of this blog and my apparent writers block as to what I am writing about. Hence I tell myself as long as I’m writing something and some post is present that’s all that matters… But I don’t believe it. Which is what prompts the second question: well what is it then that you are writing?


I am writing my stories…other people’s stories…made up stories. But is anything ever really made up? Certainly things I’ve written here are not exactly true, but they are not exactly false either. And doesn’t everyone have stories? Are everyone’s stories important? Is it more important to tell people’s stories than to make them up?


I feel I must have an answer to these questions. That knowing this answer would tell me what it is I should be writing and how. But… I don’t.


In the book, these two women get a great deal of information from their dreams. Their dreams are exotic and clearly filled with symbolism. Mine are not.


In truth, I went to bed last night, thinking: I should dream. I should get answers in my dreams. Let my subconscious talk to me. Let me have insight!


And what did I dream? In truth, the central feature was about… well…dog poop. Yes indeed. I ask for insight and this is what I get. I refuse to believe there is a deeper meaning to this and the obvious meaning is correct. I’m going to try again. After all, one does not learn how to get insights over night right? We’ll see…