Two relevant dreams to relate this morning.

In the first, I was in the world of Boston Legal. I was Denny Crane (William Shatner) and I was hanging out with Alan Shore (James Spader). We were in a montage of the two of us acting wacky in different costumes, i.e. naval uniforms, cheerleader outfits, etc.

In the last scene, the only one of any length, I was hunched over, snapping my fingers, and moving through an office hallway while wearing a black leather jacket and singing “When You’re a Jet” from West Side Story. Alan Shore was watching me suspiciously, only to finally join in halfheartedly. After he did so, I berated him for not committing himself to it. “Don’t ham it up, play it for real,” I growled at him. At least that’s what I scribbled down on my notepad that I’d said, when I woke immediately after that, humming the song. (more…)

I had two comics-related dreams this morning. I’m not sure why, as those dreams are usually sparked by something that happened in real life, such as a conversation with someone I used to know in the old days, or discovering the news of the death of a friend. (As opposed to my SF-related dreams, which seem to pop up unbidden, as anyone who follows this blog already knows). Whatever the reason, they seemed interesting to me, which means that now you’re going to have to suffer.

In the first dream, I was on a panel about mainstream coverage of the history of comics. I was with others behind a table up on a stage looking down at the audience. Also in the dream were Jim Warren (former publisher of Creepy, Eerie, and Famous Monsters of Filmland), Jim Steranko (the groundbreaking artist of Nick Fury, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the late ’60s and early ’70s), and John Verpoorten (Production Manager of Marvel Comics when I was on staff there from the mid- to late ’70s). Oddly, we were not the ages any of us could have possibly been at the same time in reality. Warren was the age he would have attained in real life now, Steranko was the age he had been in the mid-’70s, and Verpoorten was the age he would have been in the late ’60s, a look I only know from photographs of him.

I spoke on the reasons why stories about comics in the mass media are so often flawed. This is what I’d said, which I scribbled down immediately upon waking: “The person who can get it done can only get it done wrong; the person who could get it done right can’t get it done at all.” Usually, the statements I make in dreams that seem to make sense in sleep make no sense in the light of day, but this one seems to have some truth to it. What I meant by this was that most writers either have the connections to get the assignment or the background knowledge, but not both. (more…)

I had a dream early this morning in which I was hanging out with Bill Shunn and Wil McCarthy on the way to the Denver WorldCon. We’d bumped into each other at some interim airport at which we were changing planes. Our conversation was so interesting that at one point I realized I was about to miss my flight, and so I was forced to run for my gate. As I raced, two things caused me to wonder.

First, I passed a healthy Jerry Orbach, that song-and-dance man who became a star of Law & Order, which confused me, because I thought, “Isn’t he dead?” (In the waking world, he is.) And then, as I continued running, I got to thinking—why would I bump into Wil at an airport on the way to Denver? Doesn’t he live in Colorado? (In the waking world, he does.)

Once I got to my gate, I learned that I still had plenty of time, so I sat and opened my mail, which included cards (that I never got out of their envelopes, so I never learned the occasion—Happy Birthday? Congratulations? Get Well?)—or who they were from, and copies of (gulp!) Reader’s Digest (which in the real world I only ever flip through when the line at the supermarket check-out aisle is moving too slowly). I woke up before I could board the plane.

Later that morning, I had a second SF-related dream (and can recall three other dreams that had nothing to do with writers or writing). I was attending a reunion of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer’s Workshop—one made up not just of my year, but of all years. While there, I bumped into Cory Doctorow. We caught up for awhile, and then I moved on to look for other familiar faces. And strangely, though the public areas of the building were packed, I recognized no one else from my year or any other year.

I was given a pamphlet that contained photos of all other graduates, but I could recognize no faces there either. In the dream, I wasn’t perturbed by this, just found it odd and interesting, since from my years attending cons I figured I should be able to recognize graduates from almost every year of Clarion. I woke while flipping through the pamphlet, which was laid out like a high-school yearbook.

I dreamed last night that I was in the large waiting room of a train station sitting with my father. I had no idea why we were there or where we were going. I didn’t know whether both of us or just one of us would be traveling, and if only one of us, which one.

As we waited and chatted (I can remember nothing of our conversation), I looked across the room and through the crowd saw Connie Willis standing and talking with three or four other women of a similar age and type. I got up from my Dad and walked over to her to say hello.

As Connie and I talked, I pointed my Dad out to her. I waved at him, but he couldn’t seem to make me out from across the room, and so he didn’t wave back.

I woke before the dream progressed any further.

I dreamed this morning that I was in a restaurant taking part in a chicken-eating contest with Gardner Dozois. Susan Casper and John Kessel watched on. Unfortunately, the results of our match were inconclusive, because I woke before we arrived at a winner.

In the face of all the dreams I’ve shared with you here, you may ask yourself—does this guy dream of anything else besides hanging out with his publishing friends? Don’t worry. I promise you that I do. I’m a frequent dreamer, and usually remember 3-5 dreams per night. But I only choose to inflict upon you the dreams that seem relevant.

If I shared all of my dreams, you’d really be in trouble!

I dreamed this morning that I was visiting a group of people who, though outwardly friendly, turned out to be part of an extreme religious cult. When I tried to go home after dinner, I was prevented from leaving. Though I managed to sneak away within the compound and make a phone call for help, whenever I tried to speak, traffic would mysteriously roar by, drowning out my pleas.

When rescue finally arrives and I leap into the car that has come to take me away, who should be inside but Bob Howe, Mary Turzillo, and Resa Nelson, all Clarion classmates (of each other, not of me)!

Thanks for breaking me out of there, guys!

Tucked into my bed here in Salt Lake City, I dreamed that I was wandering a convention, and heard the names of other writers being called, again and again, with no response, in a manner much like the way in which Ben Stein took attendance in Ferris Beuller’s Day Off. The voice echoing through the halls belonged to Barry Malzberg.

And then I heard him call my name. Unlike those other writers (and alas, no, now that I’m awake, I no longer remember who they were), I answered the call, and went into a conference room, and there was Barry, standing in the front of an audience, dressed like Ko-Ko from The Mikado. In the dream, I saw nothing strange about this at all. And I said to him, “Barry, you know that all you ever need to do is call my name three times and I’ll be there.” (Which was odd to be saying, since I’d showed up on his first call.)

He then proceeded to ask me a question as if I was a game show participant. I can no longer remember the exact question, only that it had to do with Groucho Marx (who in the dream I remembered having heard sing “Willow, tit-willow” sometime previously), and in answer to that question I was going to say, “Margaret Dumont,” but before I spoke I suddenly knew that would be the wrong answer, and as I struggled to think of the right one, I woke.

I had a long phone conversation with Barry last week and it was nothing like that, so though this dream was entertaining to me, it makes no more sense than any of the earlier dreams I’ve shared with you here.

Now a dream in which Lee and Nick and me had killed Gary Braunbeck and dumped his body out back in the hotel parking lot—well, after the events of last night, that I would have understood!

I dreamt last night that I was editing and publishing a boutique magazine such as Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet or Electric Velocipede, and was witness to a conversation between Allen Steele and Harlan Ellison.

Allen saying that, no, Harlan couldn’t have John Kessel’s newest story for whatever project Harlan was working on, because John had already promised that story to me. Not sure why it was up to Allen to be delivering the news rather than John himself, but John didn’t appear in the dream. I turned to Ellen Datlow, who was in the dream, and bragged about the coup.

Then I woke up.

I dreamt last night that I was wandering a science-fiction convention, and it must have been a big one, because all of the usual suspects were there. As I walked back from a lunch with Jack Dann, along the way we bumped into Connie Willis, John Kessel, Adam-Troy Castro, Melissa Anna Singer, Sheila Williams, and many others. There was lots of loud conversation and much picture-taking.

The only odd thing about the dream was that when I ran into Marc Scott Zicree, he didn’t appear as his usual clean-cut self. Instead, he had long, wild hair, as if he hadn’t cut it in years, and he was dressed like a stereotypical ’60s hippie. We joked about how much he had changed since I’d last seen him, and I asked him where he’d stashed his VW van with flowers painted on the side.

Now why did my subconscious do that to a nice guy like Marc?

I had a dream last night in which I had been summoned to see Lord of the Rings director Peter Jackson, but had no idea why. I went to his hotel, at which I found him surrounded by his minions, some of whom were massaging his feet. He had me sit on a couch opposite him, and instructed two of his helpers to remove my shoes and massage my feet as well. While we sat there, we talked about science fiction and fantasy. I thought, as I looked at him over the foot massagers, this is a little weird, but hey, it’s Peter Jackson!

Then he got to the real purpose of his invitation. It had absolutely nothing to do with me—he’d been trying to reach one of my writers, Eric Baker, a longtime friend whose fiction and non-fiction I’ve been publishing as far back as the Science Fiction Age days, and who I’d met long before that. Jackson said that the phone and e-mail information he had for Eric didn’t work, and he hoped I had better and more recent info, because he really needed to get in touch with him.

So I pulled out my BlackBerry and searched for Eric’s entry in my address book, but for some reason, no matter how I typed in his name, I couldn’t find it. Other friends and writers kept popping up, but Jackson didn’t want them, only Eric, and there was no Eric. I woke still looking, with Jackson being very disappointed, and me being disappointed I was disappointing him.

Sorry, Eric—I guess this means Jackson won’t be calling you about that gig!