Strange dreams... When going to hide, know Neil Gaiman's address.

[gement]

This dream had a plot, and a most excellent cast, but was definitely on the more crack-induced side in terms of continuity. Fittingly enough.

---

The premise of this one is rather tenuous. I was myself, more or less, but...

I had ended up in Victorian London,

I had definitely been recently turned into a vampire,

I had definitely killed someone, which didn't particularly concern me, but

now the guys with pointy sticks were after me and I was in a teeshirt and jeans, which made me rather conspicuous.

So, what's a girl to do? They were surprisingly good at searching; I couldn't just disappear into the city, which was improbable and rather irritating. The clothes weren't helping. I was with a couple of other people when I came across a (store front? art exhibit?) glass case showing off three gloriously goth corset dresses with leather trench coats. Yes, oh so period.

One of the people with me, Dracula, said, "That one on the left would look perfect on you. You'd blend right in." Even in a dream, I knew this was utter crap, but it was a very cool outfit, and I seemed to have the body of the League's Miss Wilhelmina Murray (but not the tacky movie version with vamp-fu action), so I could look really good in it...

Right. Somehow more conspicuous than teeshirt and jeans, in that they had now managed to circulate a good description and civilians were spotting me. The hunters getting closer but I'd go out in style, damn it. Then I saw the lake.

Man-made lake, little island in the middle, sludgy as only a man-made lake could be, and the little concrete rock in the middle would be cover, for a while. I started walking straight in, and had a few odd moments as I started breathing water. (I think I was trying to hold my breath in my sleep, which was confusing, and I was afraid I would float, which would be no help at all.) I got to the island, bedraggled and cold, and Dracula joined me, spotless of course. The damn Van Helsings had tracked me, knew I must be in the lake somewhere. They intended to wait me out. Good old Drac pointed out how I could slip the cordon and left me to my own devices. I knew where I wanted to go.

Change of scene...

I hopped a Greyhound to Minneapolis. My clothes were pristine again; apparently these things just work out for vampires. I insinuated myself in as a houseguest at Neil Gaiman's house, which seemed to be no trouble either; who knew the un-dead had it so easy? I was waiting for a good time to talk with him.

Everyone (about six people, some of whom had just dropped by, which might explain my easy invite) was sitting around in the back yard. Someone had brought out a portable TV to watch the news, which was talking about the manhunt initiated in Newark. There had been a murder, possibly serial, possibly motivated by jealousy (I remembered now, the ex-girlfriend of the guy I was with when I was vamped). Vampire M.O. so the killer was probably nuts, suspect was last seen wearing a total gothoid outfit. They were dragging the lake, but didn't actually expect to find anything.

One of the other visitors said something sympathetic about the victim, and I absently replied, "His first person was annoying." I didn't really feel any more about it than that. Neil gave me a Look, obviously putting a couple things together and getting concerned. The sun came out, and I moved to a patch of deeper shade under a tree. I was waiting for evening, some time when I might get some time just to chat with Neil, maybe invite him out for a walk or something. I woke up before I could, which was frustrating.

To make sense of this...
I knew what I wanted to ask him; it was the motivating force through the whole second half of the dream. I was rehearsing what I wanted to say. It went something like,

"You know how to make stories go where they're supposed to. You write the right endings. This is what's happened so far - how does my story go? If you'd written me, would I get killed off? Should I get killed off? Do I deserve to live? Would you set me up working in a diner somewhere? I don't have a story yet, I just... happened. What's my story?"

I wasn't angsting about the morality of my actions. My moral compass seemed to be completely gone. I just... I didn't know where I fit. I didn't know how to be part of a gothic horror story. Whatever he told me, I would make happen. If I was the kind of character that shouldn't live through the story, it would still be better than not knowing the plot.

It was a strange kind of existential angst to not know the plot. But hanging out with the imaginary Gaiman household was very cool.

Comments

[memegarden.livejournal.com]

Thank you for sharing that, that was lovely. I suppose it makes sense that Neil Gaiman should be your Writer, yes?

[gement.livejournal.com]

Just a smidge of sense, yes. In a previous dream, he called me to talk through the plot of an unpublished book, and I couldn't understand most of what he was saying, between the transatlantic crackle and being half-asleep, but there was no way in hell I was hanging up.

You capitalize Writer... just in terms of what I wrote here, or is there another reference or context I should know about? (I like new archetypes, you know.)

[memegarden.livejournal.com]

I was considering him as a God figure--Writer, like Creator.

[gement.livejournal.com]

Funny you mention it. I really ought to post about that sometime.

[morinon.livejournal.com]

I think that Gaiman would be up there on the list of writers to know this thing.

[garillama.livejournal.com]

Mmm. . .yes, that would bother me. I always know the plots of my dreams already. They just diverge, and I get extremely worried that the dream won't turn out where it's supposed to go. . .