No need to jump

This morning I awoke from a dream in which I overheard the following conversation:

“Time to get up, get moving! Time to strap on a parachute and jump into an adventure.”

“No, thanks, I’m not planning on taking any adventure.”

“But you’re a writer! You’re supposed to be all about adventure.”

“No—I let my characters have the adventure. A writer—if that writer takes a flight in an airplane at all—is going to stay inside the airplane until it’s safely on the ground again.”

I’m not sure about all the words from that dream, but the final line is pretty much the way I dreamed it. And what I heard in my dream, I also endorse in my waking life. A writer’s job is not to have adventures: a writer’s job is to send out characters on adventures and then describe those adventures for the rest of us.

In the last twelve months, I’ve had enough personal adventures to keep me satisfied for a very long time. Over the weekend, I found myself on the Internet researching various poisons. What did the Russian government use against Alexai Navaly, and how did they acquire it? What common household items are toxic? What about plants in the house or garden? What combinations of various available chemicals are highly dangerous? Along the way, I read about the deaths of Marilyn Monroe, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Tom Petty, Prince, and a few others, even following the absurd rabbit hole of the “27 Club.” Then, to justify this research, I invented the plot of a murder mystery. A man receives a box of candy at work. After eating two pieces of the candy, he keels over, dead. His ex-wife is the primary suspect. The package had no return address, but the postmark indicates it was mailed from the post office nearest her home. From the time on the postmark, police investigators are able to view security footage of the package being mailed. The person mailing the package appears to be a woman of about the ex-wife’s build, but the mailer is unrecognizable, wearing a face mask, sunglasses, and a scarf over her head. Police chemists test the remaining candy and identify the poison—it can be made from ingredients available at the local Walmart. Obtaining a search warrant for the ex-wife’s home, investigators find wrappings from such ingredients lying behind her outdoor trash can, against the side of the house. A Walmart receipt is with those wrappings. From the date and time on the receipt, the investigators can view the shopper who bought and paid for those items—paid in cash, by the way, as that person also paid at the post office. The Walmart shopper wore the same mask, the same sunglasses, and the same scarf—which is interesting, since the purchase of those ingredients and of the box of candy happened two days before they were mailed. Is the ex-wife guilty of murder, or has someone gone out of their way to frame her for the crime? If she was framed, by whom? The only person with a motive to harm her in that way, is her dead ex-husband. Did he kill himself to get revenge on her? If so, who was his confederate, the person seen at Walmart and at the post office. That person was too small to be that man, but would any person have knowingly helped him in this crime? Or could he have tricked someone into the visits to Walmart and the post office, not telling them the reason he asked them to make those trips?

It’s an OK basis for a story, although it needs to be fleshed out with the personalities of the victim and his ex-wife, his reasons for possibly wanting to kill himself while framing his ex-wife for murder, and perhaps an additional red herring or two. I also had a subplot about the same man recently preventing a violent crime in a heroic manner, only to mutter afterward that he had hoped to be killed while performing that heroic deed. Maybe somehow the intended perpetrator of that violent crime had a way of getting even through the poisoned candy and framed the ex-wife only to draw attention away from himself or herself. The story could build from there, with perhaps an entire gang of terrorists plotting to frighten a city but thrown off balance by the random action of an average man.

I have several other writing projects stacked, ready to be written when I find the time to write. I doubt this murder mystery/adventure will be added to the queue. I might change my mind. It doesn’t have to be my adventure: I can sit home and write and send these characters out on their adventure. J.

I have a dream

It began at a gas station. I had just filled the gas tank of my car, and I was prepared for a long drive home. I had not been home for a while, and I was looking forward to returning.

The service road was crowded with traffic, so I had to wait a bit for a gap before I could leave. But soon I was on my way, merging onto the Interstate. Almost immediately I passed some construction, and some of the vehicles in front of me pulled over into the site, but I kept on driving.

The next thing I knew, I was on Washington Street in my childhood hometown. Some trees next to the street were in bloom, covered with flowers. I pulled a branch to my face and sniffed, but I smelled no odor.

After that I was home. I knew people were sleeping, so I was moving quietly from room to room. Suddenly, I heard the Beatles singing “Paperback Writer.” I knew that my alarm was going off, and my first thought was worry that the alarm had been playing every morning while I was away.

Then I woke. My alarm was playing “Paperback Writer,” as I had set it to do last night. I had not been away from home, and my alarm had not been disturbing my family during my absence.

Most of the dream makes sense: my returning home after an absence, my departure somewhat delayed by traffic, passing through construction—all that I understand. But I am trying to decipher the odorless flowers close to home.

Any suggestions? J.