I’m currently beavering away on my second novel, Reaching Out, a sequel to The Remarkables. My usual method of writing would be to plan out the story on paper (sorry, Treebeard!), and flesh out the story as I go along. I thought I had it pretty well planned out, with the odd extra plot development slipping in as I typed away.
However, last night I had a dream (that sounds familiar). The dream wasn’t about any of my characters, and I don’t think it had much to with the plot of my book, but it was so visceral, and so exciting it remained with me for the rest of today.
Normally my dreams are forgotten the moment I wake up, but the fact that this one refused to disperse intrigued me. As soon as I’d had my morning cuppa (essential to perform anything with coherency) I scribbled down the outline of the dream.
And then I knew that I had the ending for my book.
That’s not to say I didn’t have an ending, it’s just that this one seemed a much better fit. The original ending hasn’t been lost, as I was able to incorporate most of the developments into the final act of the novel.
So thank you Dreamstone, or whatever causes dreams to form. And thank you to that chunk of Mull of Kintyre cheddar I had just before bedtime also.