So you can read my books

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


First, since some of you liked my haiku's. Here is one Samuel writes in ADRIFT IN THE TIME STREAM :

"Your eyes drink mine,
The sea drifts by,
Both the same green."

Meilori quotes a haiku when she believes Samuel dead in RITES OF PASSAGE :

"The moon kisses the night,
My lips are cold,
You are gone."

Now to the subject of this post : Dream.

Dream is the love affair t'wixt wing and wind, between longing and reality.

I had the most unusual dream last night. Don't groan. No revolving doors into my unconscious. At least I hope not.

It will probably appear in my Samuel McCord novel, AN ARIA FOR HITLER. Dream is often the ink my page has been needing. So when my muse whispers to me in my sleep, I listen.

As is the custom of dream, the story begins in full bloom. Samuel McCord, in a western-cut tuxedo, is dancing like the wind given life with Meilori in a long, flowing gown of scarlet. It glitters under a night club's lights as if woven with the blood of gods. It is Venice in the year 1926. Cole Porter is playing the piano. Alanis Morissette is singing, "Let's Do It." {Hey, in the land of dream, you're lucky it wasn't Kirsten Dunst (have you heard her sing?)}

Alongside Sam dances Father Renfield, so skinny you can almost smell his bones. He is dancing with his former wife, Sister Magda, a woman with the kind of face that has saints stealing from orphanages and pacifists starting wars. And beside them dance two women : the tiny bird of a woman, Ada Byron, who inherited her father's love of scandal, and tall, elegant Margaret Fuller, whose existential soul sneers at convention. At the tables bordering the dance floor, heads are bowed in outraged gossip. Sam is oblivious to them. His beaming face says it all. Meilori is in his arms and convention be damned.

Meilori, her shoulders the white of mountain peaks, her arms slender as birch branches, looks up at Sam and whispers, "Life is not a hunt, Samuel. It is a dance. And in some ballrooms, they turn out the lights. Come, let us close our eyes and dance, feeling our bodies move under each other's fingers."

Trusting to his memory of the floor, Sam smiles and closes his eyes. Meilori does not. The veil is lifted from her jade eyes, suddenly cruel and sparkling windows into her past. Eyes that smiled at the burning of Rome, that caressed the blossoms of extinct flowers in Babylon's Gardens, and that stonily regarded the screams of sacrifices under Aztec stars, now watches as Nazi revenants slip onto the dance floor from all four directions.

Renfield notices them at the same time Magda does. He spins on Meilori, "What have you done? Innocent by-standers will be hurt!"

"No flesh is innocent."

Sam opens his eyes, sees the revenants, and looks hurt. "Why?"

"These dogs task me, beloved. They task me. And death is a dance as well. Let us show them the steps."

And that is all I remember of the dream. I awakened with the memory that Cole Porter had served with the French Foreign Legion during World War I. What can I say? I have a hodgepodge of an unconscious.

But I scribbled the fragment onto a notebook I keep by my bed just for that purpose. You might think of doing that as well. If for nothing else than not losing a snippet of dialogue you would forget otherwise.

And so now I share that fragment with all of you. I have thought about it all day. Now, that I have finally written it down formally maybe it will give me some peace. Some dreams are whispers that the mind warehouses as shouts. Oh, well, it is a hope.

What would Samuel say? "He who lives in hope dances without music."

And no, I'm not as old as Samuel, but I like all sorts or music from all eras. If you might be wondering how Alanis Morissette sounds singing "Let's Do It," here is a music video of it. And, no, again, I don't look as old as the aged Cole Porter at the beginning of the video. I look just like Tom Selleck in his 40's. Ah, don't believe that, huh? Neither does my mirror. Anyway, I must have heard Alanis last night on before I went to sleep without realizing it.


  1. I get a lot of inspiration for my stories from my dreams. Sometimes it seems more interesting in the dream itself and by morning the lure of the idea has faded, and sometimes I can take it and make it into a story.

    Where do you get all of your beautiful pictures?

  2. Funny, I've been dreaming about my work lately as well. Three nights in a row so I know there's something there I'm not seeing. And I too, was going to ask, where do you get those pictures.

    Tom Selleck, with or without his mustache?

  3. WOW. Put that dream in a query letter and no one will turn you down. Your tallent shows.

    I'm new to this blog. Are you doing all your artwork? I'm seeing images that would look great on book covers.

    Ever draw an alien? I need one.

  4. Walter, I wish I had the artist's touch in drawing. But that was my father's gift. You comparing my horror to Stephen King meant a lot to me.

    Anne, I'm Tom Selleck without the mustache. Gyspy, my cat, just snickered. Hey, fuzz face, who feeds you?

    Aubrie, I'm always grateful for your comments. My pictures I get from going to Google and punching up "Non-copyright images {whatever subject I need}." It may take me to page 11 or 12, but I usually find what I need. That or I take one from gifts that were given to me over the past.

  5. Margaret Fuller, as in the 19th century transcendentalist?

    That was quite a dream. I like your turns of phrase, such as "so skinny you can almost smell his bones." Fantastic.