Clarke's Dream: You Are a Cruel God
April 25, 2008
You sit on a stone lion, situated in courtyard where the cherry trees are in bloom, writing furiously as you breathe in the dusky night air. Your brain is burdened with more ideas that it can carry and you have to HAVE TOHAVETOHAVETOhaveto get them out, as though a steady pressure in your head will eventually cause it to burst. Some part of you briefly considers resorting to trepanation, and letting the flow of liquid inspiration seep out onto the ground from your skull.
The story is brilliant. It's a love story, a history, a morality play, a revenge tale, a romance, and a farce all at one and it works in every dimension. The car chases are thrilling and the dialog is clever. You're thinking of simultaneously writing it in play format, as it has a sort of inherent separation in to acts. You are delighted with yourself. Thoroughly delighted.
There's murder to it. Voluptuous and sensational murder of a tragic heroine or three. Murder is always a good way to start out:
"Pale skin. Pale lips still smiling in a confused sort of surprise. They're flecked with cast off blood. There's a scent of smoke in the air. The pain must have caused her to tear up, ever so slightly... she certainly wasn't the sort of woman to weep."
Murder leading to revenge leading to murder leading to love to murder to revenge again. Brilliant. Over and over you make the cycle of the epic and the minute match up, mesh, and intermingle. It's wonderful, but maddening.
Tragedy is clean. It is restful. It is flawless.
A gunshot is fired from one of the barren trees above you, and looking up, you see the frail form of Dr. De Sang, looking at you with pale shining eyes.
"You are a cruel and evil God. You do not understand how we suffer."
You fall over, thoughts, blood, and brain matter spilling from you as you can feel the masterpiece you have wrought pump out of your head in burbling gushes.
When you awaken, you have forgotten what you were writing, although the memory of the dream remains clear.