Dreaming In Prose

When I was in high school, my French teacher told us that something remarkable would happen around the time that we achieved fluency in a language: We would start dreaming in it. She said this with that wistful, happy look that masks the face when one recalls rites of passage: the purple legwarmers that they wore to middle school, the foggy windows and creak of the bucket seats the first time that they "parked," a job at a donut shop during sophomore year. In other words, even though our French teacher was talking to us, she no longer realized that we were there or that she was in her concrete walled, cold tile classroom; she was in Paris, instead, perhaps at the Arc de Triomphe, holding a conversation with a man in a tight, blue and white striped sailor shirt and a beret.

I took five years of French, a year of Spanish, and a year of German. I never achieved fluency, and am sad to say that I never dreamed in any of those languages, though I imagine those dreams to be vivid and textured: I imagine slick cobblestone alleys and crumbly buns and tiny cups of frothy coffee. I imagine bull fighters and women with lustrous black hair and fringed shawls. I imagine beer gardens and schnitzel. I imagine rolled r's, the pleasing click of the tongue, and a lyrical torrent of spoken language.

In other words, I imagine the Europe of European Vacation, which is really sort of sad, but magical enough for me.

Several years ago, I started dreaming in prose. Don't think for a minute that by sharing that, I'm in any way implying that I'm a masterful writer (I like to write and am sometimes pleased with my output, and I'll just leave it at that). But, for some reason, I started dreaming in sentences, where words spewed like lava and fell in hot embers, then ash, across a white page.

In my dreams, the words are easy. And crooked. And the connected maze of a a doodle across a sheet of paper, the kind where the pen never disconnects from the page and the design is irregular and abstract, yet interesting.

In my dreams, the words are made-up, the sentences long, then short, then long again. The syntax is awkward at times, then it's lovely, but it's always right. The words are arranged the way they are supposed to be. They fall together in stories that create chapters, chapters that create books.

There is no need to critique the work. That is not my job. My job is to write the words down, these long, windy sentences and squat, abrupt ones. My job is to not question the water moccasin that glides across the wormwood, the speckled ham that glistens on a platter on the table. My job is to immortalize them on the page.

In my dreams, there is no need to hurry. The words will always be there.

When I wake up, I do so with the same stretch of satisfaction that accompanies an afternoon spent hunched over a notebook in an oversized chair.

The satisfaction of having written.

In 2006, I have many resolutions. The most important, however, is to remember that it's not a race. That the words can flow, even when they are awkward. That the words aren't ever really wrong. They may not be publishable. They may not be insightful. But they are necessary. They are a bridge to better ones. To cleaner sentences. To sharper narratives. To work that is one step closer to being fluent.

My goals are to be a writer in the most primitive sense of the word. To hold a pen and use it across the page.

Just like when I'm dreaming in prose.

*The Jan/Feb issue of Poets and Writers has an article about a writer--can't locate my issue or remember her name--who dreamt the first chapter of her book. Now, that's what I call efficiency.