Young Writers Society

I have had this dream last year that had me so mesmerized by the story that subconsciously I didn't want to wake up until it was finished! It's rich with symbolism and I believe it has potential, but I need honest advice. Brutal, blatant, unapologetic honesty, from an overconfident sage...or something like that. Here it is in the form of a dialogue between two friends. There are two things I want to know:

1) Looking at the dream itself, do you believe it has literary potential or is it at obvious as Lord of the Flies?

2)Does it work in this dialogue? Or does it border on cliche?

Thank you. Here it goes:

“I had a really confusing dream last night.”

“Yeah?”

“It was awesome. It was like my mind was a symbolic novel.”

“Urghmph” I groaned half-heartedly. I could barely conceal my omnipresent apathy, especially with the comforting glow of sunshine warming the grass underneath me. Nevertheless, Robin continued on, brushing over my indifference with her silliness.

“So in my dream I’m on this flight for a business trip (I’m a total workaholic in this dream, by the way, wearing this God-awful pinstripe pantsuit the entire time) and on my computer the entire time working on some presentation for work or whatever. Anyway, I work my ass off from morning till midnight every day- typical corporate life- and am extremely frustrated at my faceless corporate drone of a boss for not giving me a promotion already. But still I pour myself into her work, because I see no reason not to at the moment. Are you listening?”

“Halfway.” Truth is I was paying full attention- the perplexity was slightly interesting- and Robin knew this completely. Our mutual pleasure in indulging in mind games lays the foundation of our friendship.

“Ok, so I’m still on the plane and working like crazy, which fuels my exhaustion, so by the time I get to the airport I’m in a state of mental disarray. I see a woman holding up a sign with my name on it-which in the dream is apparently Enola. This is at baggage claim, and I walk over to her (and this woman is a total hippy- long brown hair, hemp shirt, sandals, maxi skirt, barefoot, everything in earth tones) and this woman tells me to follow her, and for some reason I think nothing of it, because this is a dream and of course nothing ever makes sense. Still listening?”

“Smewhat” Of course.

“So I’m not paying much attention as I follow her, just scoffing at the woman in my head because of what a dirty hippy she is. Yeah, I’m a real snob in this dream. So time passes and we just appear at the edge of this beach, and it’s all misty so I can’t see anything that’s around. And there’s this boat in front of us- this tiny wooden rowboat- and she motions for me to get in. So I comply, again, weird, and we start rowing. In silence. The entire time. But it wasn’t an awkward silence- more solemn, like it had a purpose in being there. Through the mist this random island comes into view. Listening?”

“No.” Yes.

“So…yeah, that’s right, so I see this island in the middle of nowhere. As we approach it I notice all these rectangular wooden boxes stacked sky-high covering everything but the edge of the shore, with narrow aisles of sand white as cocaine sectioning off the stacks. After we both get off the boat, the nameless hippy-chick point to a stack and tells me to open some. I comply; no questions asked. Some have photographs of families, friends and weddings. Others had letters from lovers and brothers and sisters and parents- most either stationed at war or traveling. Some had jewelry accompanied with cards, marking them as gifts. A lot were filled with birth and certificates, marriage licenses, obituaries, and even speeches. A bunch had all sorts of toys in them. Some were a medley of these. Others had one or two things in them, but somehow those still didn’t seem sad. Hey!" Robin reached over in feigned annoyance at my perceived apathy to her story, and emphatically smacked me over the head. I jolted slightly, careful not to move from my fixed position and give off the reaction she desired.

"Thank you" I replied facetiously, as monotone as I could manage.

"Finally I came across one with “Enola” engraved on the top, and the hippy woman smiled at this- as clichéd as a bad romantic comedy- and I took that as a signal to go ahead and open it. Halfway through rolling my eyes at her obviousness, my face fell flat. It was empty. My box had nothing in it. I was both devastated and dumbfounded. I looked incredulously at the woman, waiting for an explanation. She shrugged her shoulders, smiled that irritatingly playful smile she displayed earlier, and stood there without saying anything. I looked back at the box, and began to pat the bottom at the hopes of finding something that I had missed. Something maybe, I don’t know, invisible? I felt as hollow as that box: helpless, heartbroken, and alone. Then the events of the dream came together, and as I looked down again I knew what it all meant.”

Robing paused for dramatic effect, as is her nature when reaching the climax of one of her stories. I lifted my head slightly and raised an eyebrow to humor her, hoping this would satisfy her enough to move on to the interesting part, the only part in any story I deem worthy of attention. This part of my personality has cultivated the bad habit of reading the first two chapters of a book before skipping to the climax.

She kept on staring at me, the left corner of her mouth contorted into this goofy smile in attempt to provoke an exaggerated reaction out of me. She caught me when my patience was at its limits; this time it worked.

“Christ, I’m ready. Now what’s the point?”

“The box symbolizes a chest storing every meaningful thing in your life that you treasured. The photographs of the important people in your life, the letters of people you yearned for. Toys for the happiness of your children, jewelry to remind you of special memories when you were loved. Certificates and obituaries represent important occasions. But my box had nothing in it, because I wasted my life on the empty pursuits of the corporate world, and I wasn’t even happy to do it. I hated my job, and in the end I had nothing to show for it, and that’s exactly what filled my box: nothing. And you want to know what really shook me up, that I couldn’t get off my mind since I had the dream?”

“What?”

“Guess what Enola spells backwards.”

That last sentence struck me. I don’t believe in saying anything ingenuine for the sake of holding a conversation, so not knowing how to reply- or whether it any reply would work- I kept silent. Later that night when my mind was overstimulated from stress and insomnia set it- which is often in my case- I recalled Robin’s dream. The ambiguity of its message loomed over me with the intensity of a storm cloud, burdening my thoughts with the lingering question of how, being so convoluted, could it made so much sense.

One overconfident sage coming right up.

So... once you had the empty box, I pretty much knew where this was going. It's a fairly common metaphor, fairly common idea, and if you focused on that dream exclusively, then you'd have a fairly predictable story on your hands.

However, your last two paragraphs have something. This format makes it actually relevant to a novel— but only the introduction. Now this could go just as cliche where you have a person trying to "find themselves" and realizing how empty a world we live in, or you could go in another direction and this is completely my own idea so take it with a grain of salt.

See how full the world we live in already is.

I'd also use Robin to play with the concept of a Maniac Pixie Dream Girl. She seems like the type to sweep in and "save" others right now, but you have an interesting friendship dynamic here that could really be played with.

But, up to you. As it stands the idea seems really predictable, but you have some good elements there like Enola and the insomnia afterwards.