Adam Baldwin: Dream Saver

My two worlds of perceived reality and dreamtime have always had a dysfunctional relationship. I’ve had frequent nightmares since I was very young. Notice that I didn’t say I suffered from them. By having nightmares I taught myself lucid dreaming so I could change the dream to be less scary. This is how I turned a vampire into Sonny Bono, which, on reflection, might have been a lateral move.

Sometimes, though, I’m stuck in the dream with only a minor ability to control it. This happens a lot when I’m stressed or especially sad. When my mind just can’t take another beatdown, it assigns a protector. For some reason, lately that protector has been Adam Baldwin. (Steady, ladies, he’s dressed. I know. I was disappointed too.)

He usually appears in some role with the secret agent earpiece and a sidearm, although the weaponry depends on how bad a day I’ve had. I’ve seen him in so many shows and movies as the strong, aggressive type (Chuck, Firefly, Independence Day) that my psyche has waved the wand and made him a dreamtime Patronus kicking the butt of assorted werewolves, supervillians and nameless fears. Kinda cool, really, and a sign of the times: years ago, my dreamtime avatar of protection was Magnum, P.I.

I believe dreams are very important to writers. I get lots of story ideas from my dreams, and writing them down lets me take the emotional temperature of my week. Getting the occasional guest star who kicks butt for me is just icing on the cake.

Do you remember your dreams? Do you use them in writing? Who’s been your most recent guest star?

Day of remembrance

This is a day of remembrance for me. As of today, my dad’s been gone for 32 years. He was so young when he died, younger than I am now. I was eight years old when he passed, and it’s hard to remember his face other than the way he appeared in photos. I do remember experiences, though: hearing him and my mom talk as I napped in front of the box fan, feeling that my world was safe and happy; his odd sense of humor, which I have definitely inherited; riding with him to pick up a Sunday newspaper, and perhaps receive a special treat of Twinkies to share on the ride back. I remember the walks we took down country roads, and how hard he worked to take care of us until he was too sick to move. He worked blue-collar jobs, never getting to follow his own dreams, but he was around to see my first words in print—a poem about tigers in the school newspaper. I know he would be so thrilled to see me achieving my dream as a writer. So I’ll take some time today, as I do every year, to remember him, and be grateful for all the things he taught me while he was here.

Thanks, Dad, for some swell memories. No matter how old I get, I'll still miss you.