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January 27, 2024 (a Saturday)
I was blessed to sleep in this day. Not terribly late. In fact, I probably woke up around nine-something which hardly feels like sleeping in at all. But the awaking was gentle and that’s what matters. I was allowed to wander through dreamspace on my way to fully here and thus, when I woke, I had still in my grasp two dreams.
I’m skeptical that what we remember of dreams ever truly captures the experience that was the dream. I suspect that, even upon the moment of awaking, the conscious version of ourselves is already turning memories, fading like rime on asphalt, into something sensible by conscious-mind standards.
Anyway. I woke with two stories and both of them seemed worthy of capture and so I sat in bed with my laptop and typed them.
I started with the older and longer dream, in hopes that the younger and shorter dream would better survive the wait. I finished the initial typeup of Dream One at 10:09am. I don’t know when I started, but that first writing was 1,378 words. Dream Two’s first take was 791 words and was finished at 10:39am.
For some reason, I felt a real sense of urgency about getting these stories out. I did a single-pass rewrite before even getting out of bed. I then sent the second, shorter dream to the Mormon Lit Blitz in an email (where it was longlisted before disappearing). Once out of bed, I printed off the first, longer dream and mailed it to the Santa Monica Review (from which it was rejected in a note that arrived February 22nd).
Generally, I do not recommend sending stories out the same day they were written.
The first, longer dream hit the road again in July when I saw a call that seemed perfect for it. And I guess I was right because it was accepted that same day. Which is. Well. What happened.
The second, shorter dream went to see Dialogue in May and was accepted (with an expectation of rewrites) twenty days later. Which is also so fast.
The first, longer dream was published in August of last year. The second, shorter dream was published last week.
I was pretty delighted to work with Dialogue fiction editors Joe Plicka and Ryan Shoemaker on “I Dreamed of Oil.” One weird thing about working from a dream is that it feels more honest to leave the text in its first-written form. I (generally) follow the relevant Heinlein rule (once it’s rewritten sufficient to to leave the house), but this was a dream! It felt almost like nonfiction, like I had to respect the truth of the dream. Which I suppose wasn’t true—it’s not like I'm passing this off as the mind of God—it would have been fine to rewrite. But I needed someone else’s permission. Ryan and Joe gave me that. That and useful notes.
Joe, incidentally, wrote a short essay about . . . I want to say his young daughter holding his hand? I can’t find it online anymore so I can’t say for sure. But it did inspire a piece I wrote during the early days of the pandemic. And I had just published a startling Ryan story in Irreantum. Having just worked with him (with me as his editor) is why I sent the long dream to SMR; as Ryan had published a story there, perhaps I should too.
They pushed me to make minor changes to real effect, bringing the story into a coherence that makes it work. Thanks, guys.
The finished story begins like this:
I don’t know who was sick. Maybe it was you. Let’s say it was.
You were sick and I was probably more worried than you (as per usual) but we brought our faith to our prayers and we pled that you would be healed. I anointed your head with oil. And I sealed that anointing and blessed you.
This was the last of our oil.
And you were healed.
Later, I was not there, but later you were telling this story to an apostle. And the apostle took a container of oil about six inches high and of curious workmanship—blown glass, clearly, but into such an astonishing shape it appeared the oil was twisting into the air like God in his pillar—and he blessed that oil and gave it to you.
READ I DREAMED OF OIL
The other story got no such love. It got a plain rejection then a plain acceptance. I like being accepted! Don’t misunderstand! But editors engaging in back and forth is one of the finest experiences a writer can be gifted.
“Oil” feels like an allegory, like poetry, and it begins with a dream and ends awake, thus revealing its roots. Learning that “The Orgasmic Orchestra” was born a dream won't surprise, but I doubt it’s obvious enough to guess. But rather than tell you what this one is about, here’s the first paragraph:
It appears a standard orchestra. Smallish, perhaps, just a couple dozen musicians, all women, in black dresses. Experts at their craft. But as the music proceeds, instruments fall out as certain women put down their instrument and slide a hand into a modestly designed slit in the fabric of their dress and begin to masturbate. Masturbation is an unpredictable process and these are regular women, acting outside their musical training, and not porn stars accustomed to this type of public performance. They do not come when their conductor directs them to. Sometimes they do not come at all. Perhaps we should not be surprised that they generally come when the music, too, climaxes, but this is not always the case. Sometimes their cries or whimpers of extasy seem entirely out of alignment with the music. This is part of the artistic statement the orchestra is making.
One thing I’d like to say about Alien Buddha Press who published this story: they punk.
I’ve been around and worked with a lot of publishers who claim to be punk, but this outfit genuinely is. I mean: lookit how ugly their Instagram is. It’s appalling.
Which is why I’m so surprised they accepted “The Orgasmic Orchestra.” I mean—sure, the concept is startling, but the story itself is the opposite of ugly and nothing like punk. But I suspect its calmness might be the most shocking aspect it offers a reader. (Whatever readers there may be. I’ve yet to hear anything from anyone. Perhaps you will be first.)
I don’t understand dreams. Why were these dreams set next to each other? What do they share that I do not see? So peculiar.
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