Last night, I had a dream in which I was writing a novel. Not to
brag, but I seem to remember it being quite a good book. Well
written, but I thought the story could use some work. I actually
dreamed that I tried to remedy this by writing more about the youngest
child, and I remember being sad, knowing what lay in store for him in
the future. I probably would have kept him around for a few more
chapters, out of love for his character, but his fate was inevitable.
I dreamed that I cried for him. Writing is so emotionally wrenching
sometimes. Well, here it is:
A family of aliens is living in a large home in Texas. They are
naturally kind of a brownish purple color, basically humanoid, but
with some extra accessories, like scales and long ears, but because
they are afraid of negative attention from neighbors, they are
disguised as humans. The story is told in first person, as it
happened to me in my dream. I met a girl, who I thought was lovely.
But when I went to meet her family, I knew something was awry. The
house was decorated very precisely, yet amateurly, as if they had
tried to copy a photograph from a magazine but using the wrong
supplies Their communication skills were a little awkward. They
didn't have an accent, but the words they used were not always
appropriate for the situation. Something just wasn't right. I went
exploring the house trying to figure out what was wrong, when I
discovered my lady-friend's uncle upstairs-- not disguised. I was
frightened, as anyone would have been, but before I could escape the
house in panic, they managed to convince me of their peaceful nature.
They told me of how the neighbors were cruel to them, and how they
were misunderstood, and were not even able to express themselves in
the culture that their ancestors had cherished. Upon hearing this, I
couldn't help but feel a strong bond with these people. I spent the
day telling them stories, and they told me theirs. I told them
stories from the world's history. They particularly liked the ones
about the Native Americans. They asked me to stay the night, and I
accepted their offer. I learned more about them, and was fascinated.
I decided to stay the summer and help them feel more comfortable in
society, and more confident that people would accept them if they
could just show how good at heart they really were. The youngest
child in the family was by far the most open and unafraid. He
immediately began to go out and attempt to play with the other
children in the area. He was the happiest little boy I had ever seen.
His eyes were always so full of light, and he had the quickest
imagination of anyone I had ever met. At the time we did not know how
dangerous his outings were. The town council had decided that this
family was a threat to their peace, and a mob had formed. Then, I
woke up. Dang. I hate it when that happens!
When I was actually in the dream, it seemed like I was trying to
make some kind of statement about tolerance and human rights,
acknowledging, of course, the fact that they are not technically
human. I think if I ever actually decide to write this story, it will
not be as strongly political as I had dreamed that it was. And that
paragraph I just wrote would be extended to about three chapters, with
a plethora of colorful and intriguing words, used in a very
disciplined and precise way. The discipline it takes to write a novel
is astounding. I don't think I could ever do it, because I would
expect every sentence to be entirely unblemished. That is such a hard
thing to do. And being forced to write the death of that little boy,
whose name I have now forgotten... *shudder*. And that is why,
despite my love for words and literature, I am not a writer.
