…is apparently my subconscious.
I dreamed that I was at a writer’s workshop, and every participant should try and come up with a little story on the spot and tell it to the others – as an exercise to get ideas flowing, I guess, and talk about that.
Two people in, it should have been my turn, but the workshop leader (who looks like Ian McKellen) says to me that this might already be enough. I had been feeling wrapped up in the magic of the moment and the excitement of ideas and sharing stories, so I’m disappointed and say that I really want to have the chance to have a go at this, too. He agrees, and I start telling what there is of the story idea I’ve had on the fly. People start chatting. People start leaving. One person actually gets sick and has to run for the loo, with someone else following them to make sure they are okay.
Somehow I managed to finish my little story idea anyway.
It’s this: When Elrond and the Elves first settled down in Rivendell, they went exploring the area. One day, Elrond returns and asks Glorfindel, mighty warrior and Balrog slayer, to accompany him. He takes Glorfindel to watch … either a Hobbit or a Hobbit child (or one of their forebears, anyway) who’s dancing like no one is watching, hairy and clumsy and silly and joyful. Glorfindel never forgets that scene. It serves as a reminder to him that “it’s not all about the Elves”, and as a symbol of what he keeps fighting for: a world in which you can dance safely like no one is watching, with abandon and joy.
I’m barely done outlining my idea when everyone gets up for a break, talking and ignoring me. I’m still elated just because I got my turn and was allowed to share this idea I had on the fly, and excited of what we’ll do with all of our ideas next. As I walk outside, an acquaintance from way back when I went to school looks at me with a sour expression and says, “Well, don’t take this wrong, but I didn’t like it. There’s that recurring issue I’ve noticed about your stories. They feel forced – trite.” I swallow hard, but I remind myself that’s why I’m here for, to hear honest opinions and work on our storytelling. I guess I see where she’s coming from, so I say “I see what you mean, thank you for your criticism” or something along those lines. And that’s true, too. But I’m also sad because in the telling that little story felt satisfying to me.
And that’s when I woke up.
Ian McKellen in a writer’s workshop. The first LotR story idea I’ve had in over ten years. And there’s no joy, only a dull ache deep inside of me and a bitter taste like grief on my tongue.
(‘Tis an ill wind that blows no good at all: The dream made me get up right away, so when Prudie hacked up a giant hair ball in the middle of the mattress only minutes later, I was no longer in bed.)