A Dreamer Writes - Who & Why

The first time I wrote a dream as writing for readers, not as hasty record on scavenged paper or in a journal, was for my book LIVING BY THE DEAD. It's a memoir of two disparate, inseparable experiences: living beside a cemetery and my husband's sudden death at forty-nine. That dream, from the rock bottom of my grieving, begins these dream tales. Cheer up, if you're thinking 'no thank you' to gloom in memoirs or dreams. The book had laughs, and the dreams here aren't nightmares. Most of them.

I've recorded dreams for decades, usually particularly vivid or intriguing ones, though not all come up to those marks. And of course I've forgotten thousands within minutes or seconds. Only later in my life did I join a dream group. I'm not sure I'd ever heard of one, but when I did, without really knowing what went on other than some sort of interpretation, I wanted in. Also, I knew two of the women in the group, who were decidedly not hoo hoo types; I had no fear of new age mist.

Back to writing dreams for readers. I felt unfruitful, creatively, drifting, for quite some time. Dreams are extraordinary gifts of narrative and images. We tell them aloud (boring some people to their core); characters present them in fiction; writers create fiction or poems from them almost whole.

The Wisdom of Your Dreams with cat I didn't want to do that, and one day it hit me: I will simply write my dreams as well as I can, refine them, intensify them, put into words what the dream gave to me. Or I gave to myself in dream state. It was a writing project, not ready made, but ready to make.

Dreams aren't presented in chronological order, but dates of dreaming are given if recorded. A few lines of commentary are occasional. No overt interpretation. That's enough background for now. ("It's the dreams, readers!" if I have any.)

Ellen Ashdown

ILL WIND

September 1994. I am walking at night, down the side of a desolate highway. The unlighted road where I walk is the only landscape, dream as close shot. A terrific gale is blowing, terrific. The wind blasts straight at me—but not at my face. For I am walking, must walk, backward. Only this way can I make any progress, but every step is arduous. I am bent by this wind into a curve. I rest against its force, bracing myself, to lift and drag each foot. Slow motion, slow as moving through oily air.

I am in danger too. Only the roadside white line can save me. My whole focus, undivided, unwavering, must be on that line. If I wander over the line onto the road—and I do, for oh the physical strain to keep upright—I will be killed by the speeding cars whose headlights come at me like comets. Now! Another! Too close—almost gone! Concentrate. Concentrate. Watch the line. Lift, drag, lift.

I wake. The divination comes to me whole. The only way I can go forward now is not to look ahead and to walk a narrow line. If I do not, I am gone. 1994

I AM THE CAMERA. I AM THE VIEWER.

I am watching a black-and-white dream, a ’50s or ’60s TV show (Hitchcock, Twilight Zone). It is in effect full-screen: the entire dreamscape. A family—husband, wife, two kids—are traveling in a car. The man has told his wife that, when they reach their destination, he must travel on to Las Vegas for business. He will…

BLUEBIRDS IN THE GRASS, NOT ALAS

My sister Andrea and I are on a cruise in the Caribbean, visiting an island with other passengers. The day is clear and perfect; the sky is a pure azure, as amazing as the sea’s shifting, deeper blues. Andrea and I walk side by side, but she is slightly behind me. I don’t see her…

GARY AND THE MYSTICS

My husband Gary is taking me to a house, saying only that he wants me to meet the people there. It turns out to be some sort of spiritual gathering, perhaps a sect. Even getting there feels mysterious. I have no idea we’ve arrived, thinking we are still en route. At a door I ask…