A few weeks ago, I had a bout of bronchitis, which ended up
triggering my asthma. That meant coughing, lots of big, loud coughing spasms. I
mean, coughing that rattles the windows in my house and those of my neighbors.
(I have been known to break ribs from coughing before.) Antibiotics had the
bronchitis under control quickly, but the asthma—and the coughing—was another
matter. Consequently, I’m still inhaling and nebulizing as I try to shake the
last of it, and in order to sleep at night without hacking my lungs out, I’m taking
codeine cough medicine.

This means weird dreams. That phrase seems redundant. Dreams
are, by nature, non-rational, of course. But these drugged dreams are something
else. Much more vivid and bizarre. The dead walk and talk again in my dreams
right now. My children, the youngest of whom is about to turn thirty, are babes
in arms and toddlers again in these dreams, even as I’m still a child myself, a
sibling to my own kids. Every morning I wake in wonder at the strange, technicolor
movies I’ve just experienced.

Since I’m a writer, I write them down in my journal. Each
morning I sit with my cup of tea and record another outlandish dream—a house
suddenly filled with feral cats and I can’t figure out how they’re getting in
or how to keep them out, a strange conference at an unknown university where I’m
responsible for one of the programs when hundreds of ninjas attack, a ballroom
dancing scene where I’m Ginger Rogers in chiffon and stilettos and only my unknown
partner’s hand keeps me from floating off to join all the other people living
on big multicolored clouds.

Last night, I had a dream in which an editor from Random
House visited me in Kansas City to tell me that Random House had published a
book in my Skeet Bannion series written by someone else, the first of many, and
had sold it for a television series, leaving me protesting that they couldn’t
do that since Random House is not my publisher and crying to my agent and my
actual editor at my actual publisher, “What can we do? They’re stealing my
books!”

I’m a writer, so you’d think some of these dreams would
spark stories or books. I have had the germs of stories and books come to me in
my dreams before, but not in medicated dreams like these. I know from sad
experience that none of these will offer me anything more than a moment’s entertainment
and wonder. I suppose that, if I wrote literary short fiction in the surreal
school of writing, I might find them useful, but for someone who writes mystery
novels and thrillers that must make sense to the average reader, these dreams
are a waste of my unconscious’s creative skills.

What they do for me as a writer, however, is remind me that
I have at my disposal an incredibly creative partner in that very unconscious.
I simply have to find ways to guide its creativity and to ground it in the
details of reality. That inventive part of my mind works constantly coming up
with all kinds of stories, good, bad, bizarre, and humdrum. It’s up to me to
harness and channel all that imaginative energy. Still, it would be nice if it
could just toss up a nice, usable, Academy-Award-worthy story now and then.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my nightly excursion
into the world of flying cars and dogs and Nazi storm troopers chasing me at a
writers conference and other exciting adventures.