An Adventure in Time - A Strange Inspiration

• Two extracts from the novel ‘last Night I Dreamt’ which slightly fictionally describe the writing process behind the feature film script ‘1914 – An Adventure in Time’

I once again try to focus my thoughts on my current dilemma, but my mind continues to play the images from my dream in a fantastical loop. I try to remember if any of my other dreams have had such a profound impact upon me. There are a few, though, none contain the same deep resonance. I wonder how usual it is to watch a version of yourself in a dream. There is only one other memory of a dream in which I experienced something similar, though, that, if anything, was even more peculiar.

   It happened many years ago though I can’t remember what I was doing with my life at the time or even where I was living. There was certainly nothing in my life which should have prompted something so unusual.

   In my dream I am standing in a sunlit English village green. There are several young boys in front of me playing cricket. The strangest thing is that I am not myself at all. I am a young woman in a white dress. My name is Emily, and I am not meant to be here. I start to walk towards the young boys to ask them where I am. Seeing me, the boys scream and run away. I stop and raise my hand in front of my face. It is barely there. I look down at my body enclothed in the white dress, and they too lack true substance – I am a ghost in a dream world. The sunlight fades and the dream diminishes.

   I am lost in the memory of this dream – struck again by its phantom essence. I wonder who the girl in the white dress was? I know that her name was Emily and that she was confused as to why she was on the village green. I also had the sense that the village green was not part of the modern world – it belonged to the past, and that the young boys would have long since grown old and died. I wonder if I had somehow dreamt another person’s memory? But what could ever have been my connection to her?

   In a corner of my mind’s eye, I can glimpse Emily- the mysterious girl in the white dress. I realise that we are travelers to a different time. An idea seizes me, the outline of a story - another time, another place, and a girl who does not feel like she belongs anywhere. I wonder what it is she is seeking? Maybe an escape from her everyday life, and beyond that, the truth of who she really is and where she really belongs?

   Without being fully aware that I am doing so, I start to walk at a great pace around the cemetery, my imagination soaring over the gravestones. Afterwards, I will wonder if this is what it is like to feel inspired - if this is the exquisite turmoil that artists and writers have experienced? If so, it feels like a form of madness. My mind, my imagination are no longer my own. My brain is fevered and filled with images and ideas. I can hear the voices of half-formed characters whispering in my ears, snatches of dialogue from an unknown story, vast armies of men battling upon an unruly earth, the fate of the future within their bloodied hands. And at the eye of the swirling storm, are a girl and a boy – Emily, and a young man whose face I can’t yet clearly see. They must find each other and be complete. They must prevail against the forces the world unleashes upon them. They must defy time itself. They must exist and they must love despite everything.

   Half an hour has passed, and the fever is beginning to lessen. Panicking, I rush out of the cemetery, find a newsagent, and buy pen and paper. My mind still swirling with my strange, unexpected story, I return to the cemetery, find the bench, and start to write. After another few minutes of hasty scribbling, I have the outline and structure. I am exhausted, but it doesn’t matter for the moment. I have created the beginning of something.

   I have another dream to explore. A more important and potentially rewarding one. The story of Emily and her adventures in time are more alluring to me, less vivid, but much more attractive and intriguing.

_____

   Ignoring the pain in my head which continues to persist as an unwelcome reminder of my darker dream, I head to the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee. I take my coffee and sit at my desk which overlooks the communal gardens. I consider my next move. If I am being sensible, I will order several books on screenwriting and spend the next few weeks studying them until I am proficient, or at least, knowledgeable on the subject. Then I should spend time carefully outlining my script, writing character backgrounds, beat boards, story arcs, mood boards and all the other essential creative techniques that professional writers are meant to employ.

   Instead, I open my laptop and begin to write. I am unaware of the passing of time, only realising that several hours have passed when it becomes too dark to see the letters on my keyboard. I glance up. It is dark outside. I can barely make out the outline of the tree which looms in front of my flat. My coffee cup is empty. I have no recollection of drinking from it.

   I have written six pages which comprise the opening scenes of my script. I read what I have written and am surprised by what I read, almost feeling as though the words are entirely new to me, as though it wasn’t actually I who wrote them. It is also better (I think) than I had expected, which is a relief. I find myself wanting to know what happens next.

   I make myself another coffee and continue writing.

   The work consumes me for the next few days.

   I sit at my desk and write and drink coffee and write and drink coffee and write... When I get tired, I go and lie on the sofa and sleep for a few hours. When I wake up, I make myself some more coffee and a sandwich, and then continue writing. Once a day I go to the nearby supermarket to buy some food.

   I drink coffee and I write.

   I am surprised how effortlessly the writing comes to me. I had originally written a detailed outline of the plot as I believed this is what writers are supposed to do. I have not looked at it since writing it. The script is its own creation now. I am merely its observer, its uncomprehending chronicler, it’s mute witness. I am unsure myself as to where the story is leading. I only know that its destination is as inevitable as it is unexpected.

   I write in a detached frenzy – my body utterly still, except for the movement of my fingers across the keyboard, but my mind is a fevered whirl of ideas and words.

   I am obsessive about word counts – I parcel my life into them. I will write five hundred words and then I will have a coffee - when I have completed fifteen hundred words, I will stop and pace across the room and listen to music for three songs – when I have completed two-thousand words, I shall venture into the outside world, and maybe as far as the shop for essential, though unhealthy snacks – when I have completed two and a half thousand words, I shall lie on the sofa and, I presume, sleep, though it seems less like normal slumber and more like a chance to disconnect myself and my consciousness from the rest of the universe. I awake without warning, make coffee, and return to my writing. My word count has replaced the normal unit of time measurement – words are seconds, paragraphs are minutes, pages are hours, and so on. My script has become the equivalent of a lifetime – the click of the keys, the ticking of a clock.

   Something odd occurred when I was writing today. A new character entered my story. He was completely unexpected and unannounced, and I have no idea where he emerged from or even who he really is. He appeared in a scene in which he was completely superfluous. I discovered him sitting upon a desk in the corner of the room within the scene, watching the interaction between two of my characters with an amused expression, before inserting himself into the dialogue and introducing himself as Doctor Solomon. He is as charming as he is enigmatic. I imagine him to be some form of trickster figure.

   I continue to write.

   Again, Doctor Solomon appears in my story with no explanation. I had originally thought he had been the product of my subconscious – one of those Jungian archetypes that tend to rise to the surface in times of stress or crisis, but now I find myself entertaining the possibility that he may exist independently of my imagination. I don’t mind so much – he is at the very least entertaining, even though he seems determined to defy the rules of narrative storytelling. Every character should serve a purpose and have an established backstory and motivation etc. I wouldn’t even describe him as a three-dimensional character, but rather one that has unexpectedly popped in from another dimension entirely. Maybe he is just visiting from another story?

   I continue to write.

   I am deep in unchartered territory now. My story is no longer my own and seems determined to follow its own peculiar course.

   I continue to write.

   The script is almost finished. I have called it ‘1914’. It has been two or three weeks since I started the journey. It seems like a long time ago, as though it was begun in another lifetime.

   I am slightly anxious that the writing process has been so quick and effortless. Every book or online article I have read on screenwriting has faithfully informed me that it should be a minimum six months diligent work. What am I doing wrong?

   I continue to write.

   I have finished my script. Knowing that the end is near, the anticipation is building in me with an irresistible explosive force. A persistently melodramatic voice inside my head tells me that if I don’t finish it tonight, I will die.

   I have a ritual that when I am nearing the end of a book I am reading, I will find a quiet spot by the Thames, as far away from everyone else as possible and finish it there. I always consider finishing reading a book to be a significant event in my life – almost a sacred moment. Finishing my first script is an even more momentous occasion.

   I have reached the final scene and know it will soon be over, so, for the first time in nearly a week, I head out into the wider world. I feel a little surprised to find that it is still there and a little disappointed to see that nothing seems to have changed. I can feel the summer night air enticing me onwards as I walk the empty streets to the river.

   I find a suitable bench where I can feel safe and inviolate from the world beyond the river. Behind me, the ghosts of Hampton Court remain thankfully silent in the swollen darkness. The quietude is exquisite.

   I open my laptop and begin to type. Though the natural flow of time seems to have ceased its stately procession, hours must pass whilst I write.

   The ending surprises me more than I can ever have anticipated…

_____

An extract from ‘Last Night I Dreamt’

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