Dreams

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Before I became a writer, when I was in my teens, I loved to draw and paint in an old chicken coop my father had converted into an art studio. This is a drawing I did of a recurring dream I had. I would fly high above the city, then down into my house through an open window and into my room, where I would see myself sleeping.

Dreams inspire writing.

I grew up in a small farmhouse in the shadow of high-tension wires, surrounded by red maple woods and runoff ponds full of trembling tadpoles.

20 years later, I lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood with a single window facing an interior corridor. I had a sofa-bed and one plant. One night, I had a dream about finding a dead body immersed in one of those rust-colored ponds. When I woke up, I felt such sorrow for the dead girl, she inspired me to tell her story. She became Melissa D’Agostino, the young victim in my psychological thriller, “Darkness Peering.”

A few years later, my husband and I lived in an apartment building on the fabled Sunset Strip. We had a pool on the roof. In a dream, I had a memory of the two of us driving through Oklahoma and nearly getting caught in a tornado. We sought shelter in a fast-food joint and watched the sky turn green. In the dream, we didn’t escape--the tornado hit and tore us apart. I woke up shuddering and wrote the first chapter of my second thriller, “The Breathtaker.”

I see things more clearly through the filter of dreams.