by Nancy Kress
However, this is a mixed blessing. One part of your reader's mind may well register, ''Ah! A dream about being born! Well, that makes sense, this character is certainly struggling to begin a new life.'' But another part of the same reader's mind is going, ''So neat, so pat, so connect-the-dots.'' You can avoid this by keeping your character's dreams quirky, not Freudian-mechanical. Quirky, individual and short.
USING DREAMS WELL: DREAMS UNDER PRESSURE
The legitimate use of dreams in fiction is not to drive plot, but to illuminate character. There are a few different ways to do this.
The most straightforward is to simply recount the dream as the character has it. This works best when the character is under great internal pressure because of story events, and his dreaming is just one among many ways of dramatizing that pressure. If the pressure is building to a climax, the character's tension may be so great that more than one paragraph is justified for the dream. Here is Alice Hoffman's protagonist, Polly Farrell, from the novel At Risk. Polly's eleven-year-old daughter Amanda is dying of AIDS contracted from a blood transfusion. This has affected every area of Polly's life. Just before Amanda stops going to school, Polly dreams:
Tonight she dreams that she has lost Amanda and cannot find her. She enters her dream through an alleyway made of stones. She can hear children crying, and the sound of shovels, methodically hitting against the earth. It's raining and the ground is slippery; as she runs, mud splashes up and coats her legs, turning them the color of blood.
This is what she knows: Someone has taken her daughter. Someone has put up a fence ringed with spikes. Someone is screaming in the distance. There are other children here, with no one to care for them, but Polly has no time for them. She runs faster. Her heart is pounding. She reaches the shelter she's looking for, and when she goes inside all she can see is one bed after another. Rows and rows of iron beds made up with white sheets. This is the children's house. This is the place where they're given food and water every day, but there is still no one to hold them. As she walks through the shelter, children cry out to her, babies lift their arms, begging to be picked up. They all look the same to her, that is what's horrible. They look like
Amanda, but they're not. Polly knows she will recognize her own daughter; she must. There she is, in a small bed pushed up against a wall. Amanda can no longer speak, but Polly can tell she recognizes her. She wraps her in a sheet, and after they leave the shelter, after they step outside, the sheet trails in the mud and makes a hissing sound.
The alley she first entered by is the only way out, and, without seeing them, Polly knows there are guards. But all guards grow careless, they grow sleepy when their stomachs are full, when the screaming is in the distance and not right at their feet. So Polly crouches down low; it is dusk now, but that won't last forever. They will wait until dark. When no one is looking, when their backs are turned, Polly will hoist Amanda over her shoulder and make her way back to the alley. The only thing they really have to fear is a full moon, because in this dream even moonlight is dangerous.
The chapter ends there. It would be hard to imagine a more effective dramatization of Polly's fear, helplessness and pain.
A shorter dream, merely mentioned in passing, can nonetheless hint at complex emotions underneath. The narrator of Lynne Reid Banks's The Backward Shadow has come through complicated story events involving her single motherhood of David, now a toddler, plus failed romances, a new business and the mental illness of her best friend, housemate and business partner. Near the end of the book, when the protagonist has emerged from her trials stronger than before, a briefly cited dream forms only part of her moment of self-realization:
Dottie and I would be real partners now; I had served my apprenticeship and could work with her on an even footing. The business now mattered to me as much as to her, and I knew almost as much about it. There seemed no reason at all why we shouldn't make a real success of it between us. And as for our common personal problem—to wit, men—in that elevated moment of anticipated happiness, there was no room for doubts. My old conviction returned to me full force—once one achieves self-reliance, once one has overcome the need for men, that's when they come, usually in droves. I laughed into my pillow, fell asleep, and dreamed of David, grown tall and handsome, making love to me . . . horrors! But I woke the next morning laughing because it was so obvious and Freudian, and I felt so happy suddenly, I felt that I, too, had been cured.
Is your protagonist at an emotional turning point in the story? Is she under enough pressure to be dreaming about the situation? Can you concoct for her a dream that is both clear enough in meaning so that it dramatizes her emotional state, but not so clear it seems mechanical? If so, recount her dream as she has it.
USING DREAMS WELL: CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
Another way to use dreams is to have the character experience the dream not at the time of the story, but years earlier. He then recalls the dream when story events remind him of it. This makes the dream seem less author-engineered than when his current dreams conveniently convey current information. Herman Wouk uses this technique to enhance a descriptive passage in The Caine Mutiny. Willie Keith is at his preliminary hearing for court-martial for mutiny:
There were a few dreams of childhood which Willie could never forget, one in particular, in which he had seen God as an enormous jack-in-the-box popping up over the trees on the lawn of his home and leaning over to stare down at him. The scene in the anteroom of the Com Twelve legal office had the same quality of unreal and painful vividness. There were the green close walls; the bookcase full of fat regular legal volumes bound in brown and red; the single fluorescent light overhead, throwing a bluish glare; the ashtray full of butts beside him on the desk, sending up a stale smell; the ''board of investigation,'' a surly, thin little captain, his voice dry and sneering, his face the face of a nasty post-office clerk refusing a badly wrapped package.
Does your story contain description—or thoughts, or exposition— that might be similarly made graphic by a remembered dream?
Similar to remembered dreams are recurrent dreams, those dreams we have over and over again throughout our lives. Suppose, for instance, your character, who is now forty-seven years old and a successful surgeon, has had the same dream ever since he was thirteen: He's on the third floor of his high school, the school bus is pulling away without him, and he can't get his locker open. Throughout the course of your novel, you might briefly show this dream recurring whenever this grown man feels particularly incapable and at the mercy of external events. Used this way, it can add to his characterization, showing us a vulnerable side to a usually decisive person.
USING DREAMS WELL: LISTEN TO THIS NIGHTMARE!
Sometimes remembered dreams can be used effectively in dialogue. One character can recite last night's dreams to a second character— and by including that second character's reactions, you characterize both of them.
There are two possibilities. One, the character reciting the dream is the POV character. Here, for example, POV character Pamela is relating a dream to her husband, Ben:
''I dreamed again last night about Judy,'' Pamela said at breakfast. She spoke carefully, keeping her voice steady. Lately Ben had seemed to flinch at hearing Judy's name.
''Oh?'' he said. He picked up the Post.
''She was standing in the cemetery again, beside her grave. We were all there, even the babies, and I was crying. Then Judy came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'Pam, honey—don't cry. I'm here.' I said, 'But you're dead!' and Judy said, 'Yes, well, you can't have everything.'''
''Ummm,'' Ben said. He turned to the Metro section.
''The odd thing was that after she said that, I felt better,'' Pamela said. But that didn't really do the dream justice. How to convey to Ben the warm, wonderful tide of comfort the dream had given her? Comfort that felt—never mind if this was irrational—directly from Judy herself. You can't have everything—that was Judy, her own personal mix of cheerful irreverence
and practical acceptance, and just hearing it had made Pamela so happy she'd wanted to go on crying, but now not from grief. How to let Ben know the difference this dream—unlike the others—had made for Pamela?
She said, ''Ben, when I woke up, I felt so . .. so . . .'' ''I think, Pam,'' Ben said, rustling the newspaper, ''that it's morbid to start each day with talking about Judy. We could have some other topic of conversation at breakfast, don't you think?''
The content of Pamela's dream, her thoughts about it, Ben's reactions—all characterize these two people. And if the plot includes the dissolution of this marriage, Pamela and Ben's sharing (or nonshar-ing) of this dream also furthers that dissolution.
The other use of dreams in dialogue occurs when the character reciting the dream is not the POV character. Here you lose the chance to contrast the spoken version of the dream with the dreamer's thoughts about it. But you gain the chance to give more intimate reactions of the listener, who is the POV character. In W. Somerset Maugham's Of Human Bondage, for example, Mildred daily recites all her dreams to Philip, who is bored to tears by them. We see quite concretely both that Mildred is a drag and that Philip has fallen out of love. Her dreams form part of his nightmare.
A SPECIAL CASE: USING DAYDREAMS
Not all dreams, of course, happen when we're asleep. Because daydreams are under conscious control, they dramatize different aspects of a character: conscious wishes, plans and fantasies. Many writers use daydreams in this way.
One who takes the technique farther is Marilyn French in Her Mother's Daughter. French shows us in great detail the daydream that Belle has about her photographer daughter Anastasia, who has been sent on a photography assignment to the Middle East. In Belle's imaginings, Anastasia is feted by kings, lionized for her talent, superbly dressed in satin gowns, ''disdainful and unattainable.'' Juxtaposed to Belle's daydream is Anastasia's reality:
She is happy to be on the road again, doing, riding in the wind, drying up under the desert sun, collapsing exhausted in a dusty hotel or on a sleeping bag laid beneath palm trees, the smell of camel dung on the air, the camels' squeaks and grunts punctuating the silence, night as night never comes where she lives . . . smelling camel dung and desert flowers and thinking of her mother.
The daydream's divergence from the reality shows us a lot about Belle's expectations about her daughter—and the burden those expectations place upon Anastasia.
What kind of daydreams does your character have? Do they reveal anything sufficiently significant to justify including one in your text?
'' . . . AND NOW THE NEWS'': HOW DAN RATHER CAN ILLUMINATE YOUR CHARACTER
Just as the nature of a character's dreams shows us her hopes and fears, her reactions to the daily news can show us how she views the world she must actually inhabit. It doesn't matter whether this ''news'' comes to her via TV, radio, newspapers, letters, war drums, town crier or interstellar ansible. It doesn't even particularly matter what specifics the news contains. What matters is her response.
Why? Let's explore that question through a detailed example.
A family is sitting around the living room after dinner, waiting for Seinfeld. The family consists of Grandma Ann, her son Bill and his wife Janet, sixteen-year-old Todd, Todd's girlfriend Karen, thirteen-year-old Melissa and ten-year-old Jack. All these people belong to the same socioeconomic group and ethnic background. They all talk roughly the same, which is with middle-class American diction. They all like potato chips, jeans and going to the mall. Except for the obvious differences of age and gender, they all look pretty much alike (even the girlfriend).
While they're waiting for their sitcom, they watch the news. These are the stories:
• Two major local companies are merging, causing both stocks to jump.
• One teen shot another fatally, allegedly during an argument over a leather jacket.
• Jimmy Carter has left on a peacemaking mission in a war-torn third-world country.
• Scientists have announced a major breakthrough in cancer research, involving experimental gene therapy.
• A storm will move in over the weekend, with heavy rain.
• The Chicago Cubs lost to the Pittsburgh Pirates, six to nothing.
As they listen to all this, what goes through the mind of each person in that living room?
First of all—does it matter? Yes, it does, even though none of these news stories has the slightest connection to your plot. These seven people's reactions matter because what you observe as you conveniently read their minds tells you more about them than about the news or their environment.
A wise man once said, "We see the world not as it is, but as we are.'' To discover what a person is really like, decipher his map of reality. We all carry one around inside, and it dictates which parts of reality we focus on and how we react to that focus.
For instance, Grandma Ann zeroes in on the shooting. Her inner monologue goes something like this: Taking a life over a leather jacket! I don't know what's happened to people. It was never like this when I was young. The world has just gone downhill ever since . . . still, what can you expect from those people. If they'd all get jobs they could afford to buy their own jackets instead of. . . and leather isn't even a good buy, not warm enough, young people have no sense. We knew better when I was young. What a world! I'm glad my kids are all grown but still they certainly have room for improvement look at Jack drinking another beer he's going to get fat if he isn't careful. . . .
And so on. Ann has chosen—although without being conscious of choosing—to focus on the shooting story. She remembers only vaguely that the news mentioned Jimmy Carter or a corporate merger, and she's under the impression that the Chicago Cubs are a football team. The shooting story matches her pre-existing beliefs about the world, her map of reality, and that's what dictates her reactions.
Bill, on the other hand, notices the shooting only in passing: one more act of modern urban violence. He's thinking about the merger of Acme Corporation and Widget Industries, because he owns stock in both. Would this be a good time to sell? And if he did, what should he invest in next? He thinks about this throughout the shooting, Jimmy Carter and cancer research, and returns his full attention to the screen during the weather report only, because he's planning on mowing the lawn on Saturday.
Janet munches potato chips mildly throughout the first three stories, half-listening. But her eyes fill with unexpected tears during the cancer research story. Her mother died of cancer just three months ago. Why couldn't the scientists have discovered this new gene-therapy breakthrough earlier, when it might have done her mother some good? Some people just never get a break.
Todd and Karen don't really register any of the news. They don't own stocks, don't attend schools where violence is a big issue, aren't interested in politics and are decades away from dying. They're most interested in gazing at each other.
Young Melissa, however, is an idealist. She pays close attention to the story about Jimmy Carter. How wonderful to have the power to help end war! When she grows up, she wants to do something like that. She won't just waste her life, like her parents. She's going to make a difference in the world: be a peace envoy, or a great spiritual leader. Or maybe—the cancer research story is on now—she'll be an important scientist and discover ways to save the planet from pollution. Her grades in science are very good.
Jack reads a comic book throughout the news until the sports come on. The Pirates won! All right! Now he can collect his fifty-cent bet from that stupid Keith Smith at school tomorrow!
All these people watched the same news program. But you'd never know it. Each saw the news not in terms of what happened that day, but mostly in terms of who he or she is. This is what makes imagining your characters' reactions to news broadcasts so valuable. You learn so much about them.
Try an experiment. Sit down and watch a news show not through your own eyes, but through your character's. Ask yourself:
• Which news story would interest him the m
ost? Why?
• Which stories would he ignore, or only register peripherally?
• For the stories he does react to, what emotions are evoked? How intensely?
• What does all this say about his map of reality?
Once you know the answers to these questions, you're ready for the next step: deciding how to use your new insights into your character. You may decide the insights should be used only to help you better understand the way he views the world. Alternatively, you may decide to incorporate a news-watching scene directly into your story.
PUTTING THE NEWS INTO YOUR FICTION
A word of caution here. Scenes in fiction, especially short fiction, should do two things: deepen character and advance the plot. If a reacting-to-the-news scene is going to do only the former, you are much better off without the scene. Just let it form what journalists refer to as deep background.
Sometimes, however, both plot and character can be advanced by including a session with the news. If so, it provides a good way to let the reader glimpse the protagonist's map of reality.
For instance, note what catches Harry ''Rabbit'' Angstrom's attention in John Updike's Rabbit Is Rich:
The music stops, the news comes on. A young female voice reads it, with a twang like she knows she's wasting our time. Fuel, truckers. Three-Mile Island investigations continue. Date for Skylab Fall has been revised. Somoza in trouble too. Stay of execution of convicted Florida killer denied. Former leader of Great Britain's liberal party acquitted of charges of conspiring to murder his former homosexual lover. This annoys Rabbit, but his indignation at this pompous pansy's getting off scot-free dissolves in his curiosity about the next criminal case on the news, this of a Baltimore physician who was charged with murdering a Canada goose with a golf club.
There's Rabbit captured in a perfect cameo: passing over the weighty news, interested in the sexual, airing his prejudices and finally interested most in the trivially bizarre.