It's weird. I'm working on the rewrites for Sleepwalking Awake, and then it hits me. Recently, thanks to all the stress I've been getting from work, I've been remembering more and more of my dreams. Now, normally, I don't remember any of my dreams. If I didn't have a stressor of some sort - like when my grandmother died (I had a doozy of dreams at the time) - I end up forgetting my dreams. The fact that I've been remembering all of my dreams for the past few days kinda frightens me.
Why, you might ask. Well, the story of Sleepwalking Awake is about a man who can't sleep because his dreams get in the way. Now, my dreams aren't getting in the way of my sleep, but you know this thing about fictions mirroring real life. In this case, I'm afraid that my life is mirroring my fiction. My character is an aimless security guard, trapped in a world of the mundane and routinary. He ends up getting so bored that the two parts of his head decide to literally run away from each other, bridging the gap between waking and dreaming with almost seamless transitions.
Which isn't to say that my life - or my work is boring. I love my work (so long as I don't have to write keyword descriptions, and I hope my boss is reading this haha), and I think routine is a good thing. If something that's supposed to help you hampers your creativity, then maybe you weren't really creative to begin with, is what I believe, so I'm trying to fit both domestication and abject craziness into one sizzling cocktail. So far, it's worked. I've been told that I'm so crazy I'm fun, and I know I do my job well enough to the point of being anally obsessive-compulsive with words.
But this freaks me out. What if my stories have begun to eat their way out of my head and into my real life, affecting the way I live and the decisions I make in such a manner that they actually move me into a direction that might turn my life into something I'd usually write about? Check these out:
Why, you might ask. Well, the story of Sleepwalking Awake is about a man who can't sleep because his dreams get in the way. Now, my dreams aren't getting in the way of my sleep, but you know this thing about fictions mirroring real life. In this case, I'm afraid that my life is mirroring my fiction. My character is an aimless security guard, trapped in a world of the mundane and routinary. He ends up getting so bored that the two parts of his head decide to literally run away from each other, bridging the gap between waking and dreaming with almost seamless transitions.
Which isn't to say that my life - or my work is boring. I love my work (so long as I don't have to write keyword descriptions, and I hope my boss is reading this haha), and I think routine is a good thing. If something that's supposed to help you hampers your creativity, then maybe you weren't really creative to begin with, is what I believe, so I'm trying to fit both domestication and abject craziness into one sizzling cocktail. So far, it's worked. I've been told that I'm so crazy I'm fun, and I know I do my job well enough to the point of being anally obsessive-compulsive with words.
But this freaks me out. What if my stories have begun to eat their way out of my head and into my real life, affecting the way I live and the decisions I make in such a manner that they actually move me into a direction that might turn my life into something I'd usually write about? Check these out:
- The other day, I and a bunch of pedestrians were chased by this crazy guy wearing a yellow jacket and rain boots.
- Last night, I witnessed a fight between two drunken friends. I went home while they were in the middle of the spat, disgusted by how some people can't control their emotions when intoxicated.
- Last Friday and Saturday, after a Thursday marathon of work that lasted well into the afternoon of Friday, the heads and level twos of the content department - along with me - decided to spontaneously show their relief that so much work was completed in such a short time by taking the two days off.
- I dreamt that the level two of the BOTW and I, along with a bunch of other friends, were special unit officers chasing a gigantic monster made out of diamond in the Ayala overpass of EDSA. The level two is killed, and he is heavily grieved for by plenty of people during his wake.
- I also dreamed that Cholo Goitia and I were infiltrating this rich man's house for some reason or other. We were both friends of the man (who was a doddering old fool) and his family, but since we were wronged (I couldn't recall how) by the man, we decided to have it out with him. The fun thing about his house was that it was filled with hallways with plenty of traps. Some of them were harmless (one hallway had a trap that tossed small pebbles at you) while others were fairly dangerous (one hallway that shot daggers a la Matrix bullets). We ended up getting trapped in the master's chamber by the butler, and yeah it was also booby-trapped. This time, we had to force our way out of a room that was undeniably starting to flood in.
All of which are something I'd end up writing about. It's weird, and frightening, since life tends to throw you bucketfuls of non sequiturs as it is. Now your id wants in on the action, and in an amazing display of some screwed up form of animal magnetism, attracts you to the strangest situations conceivable and ends up compromising your poise and your safety.
The fun thing about the strangeness of living is that when it happens to other people, it becomes a story, which is why I didn't go into details with the strange happenings in my life since I could later make money out of them - and no magician ever reveals his secrets. But over at Torrentspy, you can find a whole set of really strange stories, which makes me believe that life taking on the oddness of fiction can be good for the reader - but horrible for the person experiencing the oddment. Take Dave Holland's story, for example.
I'm hoping to finish Sleepwalking Awake sometime soon so that I can start working on a new story idea about writers and their muses. But I also keep on thinking that although I'm a gimmick-loving, fun guy who can't stand days like today (this Sunday was as flat as a Burger McDo), maybe I'd like to have a choice on the kinds of excitement that occurs in my life. If it takes oddities to inspire the truly creative side of a person out of its shell, then would the lack of excitement make my stories as flat as my Sunday was?
I sure as hell hope not. Because sometimes, you'd like to have a handle on what the main character's going to be doing next. Otherwise, it won't be a satisfying tale.
The fun thing about the strangeness of living is that when it happens to other people, it becomes a story, which is why I didn't go into details with the strange happenings in my life since I could later make money out of them - and no magician ever reveals his secrets. But over at Torrentspy, you can find a whole set of really strange stories, which makes me believe that life taking on the oddness of fiction can be good for the reader - but horrible for the person experiencing the oddment. Take Dave Holland's story, for example.
I'm hoping to finish Sleepwalking Awake sometime soon so that I can start working on a new story idea about writers and their muses. But I also keep on thinking that although I'm a gimmick-loving, fun guy who can't stand days like today (this Sunday was as flat as a Burger McDo), maybe I'd like to have a choice on the kinds of excitement that occurs in my life. If it takes oddities to inspire the truly creative side of a person out of its shell, then would the lack of excitement make my stories as flat as my Sunday was?
I sure as hell hope not. Because sometimes, you'd like to have a handle on what the main character's going to be doing next. Otherwise, it won't be a satisfying tale.
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