So this dream jerked me awake early this morning. I remember it pretty clearly: I’m in some sort of class, and there’s a guy who’s showing off some very brightly colored rugs or mats. Part of me thinks the class is supposed to be about making our own designs, but I can’t be sure. Anyway, I’m working alongside this one guy who looks vaguely like a younger Tom Hanks: some all-around nice, genial guy. But on my left, there’s my best friend from college, who also happened to be my maid of honor (for real). This is hard to explain, but I’m so involved with the Tom Hanks guy and so invested in what we’re dong together—learning how to create these colorful rugs–that I’m stretched out, full-length, across this great, big table. Tom Hanks and the bright rugs and whatever project we’re doing is in front of me and seem miles away from my best friend, who’s far behind. In fact, I’m only barely hooked onto the edge of the table by the tips of my boots. (Boots? Boots?)
So…something happens. I think we get this assignment we’re supposed to do with our partners. Mine is supposed to be my maid of honor, but as I move back into my seat, she starts to scream—I mean, we’re talking really hollering here—about how I’ve ignored her; how I’ve only come back to her when it’s convenient and what kind of lousy friend am I, blah, blah, blah.
Well, I’m mortified. I wish she’d be quiet already. I try calming her down, but she won’t listen to a thing I say. Finally, we’re separated—I want to say that a teacher does that, but I’m not sure—and I’m assigned to work with this guy (not Tom Hanks). The assignment’s kind of stupid; we’re supposed to come up with some kind of coherent story that has something to do with Germany (?) and cute little phrases that are vaguely sexual (in the dream, I came up with the “Naughty Nymphettes of Nuremburg.” (I know: weird.)
That’s when I woke and kicked off the covers and, in general, made a fuss, which in turn woke the husband. (Wait, before you judge, he’s always waking me up to tell me about his dreams because he thinks I know his unconscious better than he does. Actually, his dreams are pretty easy. Come to think of it, over the last several months, so are mine.) I told him as much as I could remember, and then he said, “Well, I suppose I could be Tom Hanks.”
And I said, “Well . . . maybe. I don’t know.”
Yeah. I lied.
That he was Tom Hanks was the first thing that occurred to me. (One thing about his living with a recovering shrink: he’s gotten good at this stuff by association and osmosis. So why does he need me?) The more I thought about the dream, the more transparent it became. Without going into all the sex stuff (there really wasn’t that much, but still…TMI), let’s call a spade a spade: that dream was all about past, present, and future. I’ve not seen or heard from my best friend from college in a dog’s age; we used to keep in pretty regular touch, but for me at least, it’s like that William Hurt line from The Big Chill (and I paraphrase): “We knew each other once a long time ago for a very short period of time.” I think the last time I heard from her (and vice versa) was about two, three years ago.
But let’s go with her representing where I’ve been and the past. In the future—something I have to stretch and reach—is the Tom Hanks/husband. (The husband is an all-around nice guy, whom everyone likes. They just do, and he’s a very patient, caring, wholesome boy-next-door person.) We’re involved in something together that looks pretty, is very colorful, etc., but something we have to learn to do. Not coincidentally, last night, he was telling me all his ideas for how he wants to construct his new clinic to make things better and easier for patients, etc. Easy-peasy: earlier that day, I’d been showing a friend pictures of the new place in Huntsville, and she singled out the owner’s rugs in particular, saying how much she really liked them, how cool they were, and what a shame it was that I couldn’t keep them. (I suppose I could, but they don’t go with my current décor and furniture, so . . .) But I do like them; in fact, I really LOVED his dining table and chairs and seriously thought about asking to buy them but decided against that because they don’t go that well with the rest of our furniture and not at all with my console. It was tough, though. They’re pretty cool.
Anyway, clearly, that’s where the rug theme came from, that discussion about the house and Huntsville—and if you want to see what I’m talking about, check out this link featuring the house’s great room and kitchen (all ten trillion pictures of them) as well as the view of the house from the back and then that lovely view from atop Monte Sano.
Well . . . you see where this is going, right? The tension between what’s in my past, my maid of honor going apeshit, the allure of what’s ahead? Easy, right?
Actually, it is that simple an interpretation. Even my assignment—to come up with pithy one-liners—well, that’s all about me and the present, my now. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’ve had a HORRIBLE time trying to get my writing off the ground; I’ve talked about the Egmont stuff and then all this house nonsense and how hard it is for me to concentrate or care.
Having found a house in Huntsville, the only hurdles left are arranging for the move (annoying but not insurmountable and something I can control) and selling this one (all-consuming and completely out of my control). This past week, I decided that enough was enough already; I had to buckle down, write an outline around this fledgling idea I have (set in the beginning years of World War II–and now you see where the Germany theme came from), and get back to what I’m supposed to be doing.
Well, I had one pretty good day. It was such a singular event that I remember the day: Thursday. I focused on the outline; did the first big sequence—and felt amazingly calm. It was a good day; I wasn’t angry or frustrated. I was stuck—that is, I was thinking, Okay, what happens next? But it was a good kind of stuck. In fact, as I worked, I was reminded of something Stephen King once wrote in an introduction; this was either in his Everything’s Eventual anthology or Just After Sunset. (I honestly can’t remember, and the exact anthology’s not important anyway.) He talked about something I can relate to: of sitting down to write these short stories but finding that to be really hard and his having this weird thought that, you know, he once knew how to do this.
Same thing here. I’ve been away from writing long enough now that I’m really starting to question whether I know how to do this anymore. I think it accounts for some of my keyboard-avoidance, that blank-page-avoidance which is tied to that awful hesitation most writers feel when confronted with starting a new story: excitement and dread, all mixed up together. You know that what you’ll write will be utter crap, and if I’m any gauge, the place where I think the story begins isn’t really the beginning at all. But I have to tell myself the story first so I can then find the beginning for you.
For the longest time, I’ve been expecting that I should sit down and write something—and it should be perfect, right off the bat. It should be golden. It should be a great story.
You’d think I haven’t done this before.
Yet that is exactly what I’m doing with the house here and the house there: trying to make everything perfect before I leave and arrive. It’s the husband who tries to help me put on the brakes (Sure, paint and change the bathroom and the front door…but then, let’s just live there for a while and figure out what we should do next.) No, no, I want a fully-formed story right away because I can see all the stuff that needs to come after: the landscaping, trying to figure out where to find good vegetables, a Starbucks, nice cheese, etc., etc. This is all stuff you discover as you live your story; it can’t just happen, no matter how well-prepared you think you are.
Well, don’t try telling me that. This last go-round in Huntsville, I made it my mission to track down a decent gym, the best pool, a bike trail where I wouldn’t get killed; I wanted to learn my way around town as quickly as possible; I wanted to map out the exact route the husband should take to work, blah, blah, blah.
So I think that the dream is, yes, all about what’s going on right now—and also a wake-up call (and, yes, I did wake up right after). There is no way I can trick myself into being happy about leaving here; that’s what my maid-of-honor is all about (and, remember, this is also all about the tension of being a wife, following a husband to a new job and being forced to leave one life for another). My past is upset; I’m upset. But there is something pretty ahead, too; there are things to engage my attention, and I do need to stop hanging on by my toenails.
Which would mean getting back to what I used to know and enjoy: the little things, like my Sunday Cake (Pecan Praline with Praline Icing and Sugared Pecans this week because I decided on something vaguely Southern)
and Friday’s Cocktail: a French 75, that’s actually named for the gun and artillery shell because it’s supposed to pack quite the punch and—yes—this cocktail is both scrumptious and potent; one was plenty.
I also was determied to tackle the very big, like writing a book, writing anything, writing something no matter how crappy I think it might be—because I did once understand this; I do know how to tell a story; and I need to find a story to care about. More importantly, I think I need to allow myself to care: care about the future, a new book, a new place, a different house, new experiences.
Oh, before I forget, the boots. Well, right before bed, I was looking at these really nice shoes that my friend here, the one who loved the rugs, had just gotten and which I completely covet (her taste in footwear can not be beat; me, I’m so pedestrian: give me a nice pair of sneaks and I’m done). Also, on one flight down to Huntsville, I happened to see this one woman with these gorgeous boots in Nashville; when we drove down to Alabama from there, every fifth billboard was about boots, and I remember thinking, Hunh, I got to get me a pair of those. I’ve always wanted a nice, colorful pair of boots, the type with cutouts and an intricate design. Yes, yes, this is a first-world problem.
As for the rest . . . I am still not touching that line about the naughty nymphettes. Though it does have a nice ring.
