Why I Should Write Screenplays Instead of Novels

Proof That I Ought to Write Comedic, Romantic Screenplays, Not Novels

Point One: I'm a Dreamer

 I have dreams, and then I have vivid dreams. There are dreams that feel like dreams and then there are dreams that feel realer than real life. Do yours have that distinction? The best part about these vivid dreams are the fact that in most cases, they are full of things I have never before felt, or at a depth I have never felt them and with no exceptions, they come unexpectedly and have nothing to do with what I assume I will dream about. My brain somehow concocts the most intricate pieces of entertainment from my subconscious and imagination. As I sleep, I live them. A dream-dream will fade within the first hour of my waking up. Sometimes, if I'm jostled awake too abruptly by my "Somewhere Beyond the Sea" alarm, I'll forget them in an instant. But the vivid dreams exist as if preserved by some good fairy's charms. They aren't always romantic dreams either--once I had to be the assistant of a wordless FBI agent. I have run a week before on the fumes of a vivid dream just as I would if it was a real experience. They don't come often--perhaps every several months--but when they come, they are a delight. I had one the other night. I'll skip the details except for telling you that it was a perfectly innocent dream of a slightly-famous and highly-attractive man moving into the house across the road and falling in love with me. At one point in the dream he took my hand and laced his fingers through mine and, laughing, took me into the house to meet his parents and his eight year old niece.

I wish I could describe to you just how real it felt. Everything, from the feel of his fingers between mine to the slightly-stupid question I asked at the beginning when his sudden tenderness toward me sent me into much warm-cheeked confusion, felt extremely calm and real. Which is hilarious, because I've never met this person or had someone hold my hand that way, and the people who live in the house across the street have been there since we moved in. All the details are ones I have never consciously considered. The reality of the dream continued when, after visiting with the man's parents, I checked my phone and realized that it was 11:30 and I had needed to be at work by 9:00. I pulled a Cinderella then and fled the scene, sending a panicked text to my boss with something along the lines of, "Sorry I'm late--a really sweet/handsome man started talking to me and I thought it had only been fifteen minutes!"

Such a lame excuse, isn't it?

But I love dreams like this. I spent the entire day after that dream feeling loved and cherished and excited about something...what was it? Oh yeah. That ridiculously vivid dream. I laughed to myself over it, then told it to my siblings where it was laughed over and taunted further. One of my sisters put together a love-lorn playlist and we danced around the kitchen, putting dinner together to the tune of "Not That Girl" and "Marry Me." The point of this post so far is to let you in on my frame of mind before socking you with...

Point Two: I'm queen of serendipitous hilarity

Because, though fun, not only was our kitchen dance session amazingly pathetic but the reason for my flushed cheeks and starry eyes was some dumb dream about someone I will never meet and never think about without provocation. Still, I have told you before that I'm easily satisfied with small things and if it is pitiable that having a dream about someone holding my hand and saying pretty things to me sets me up for a fortnight, at least I'm not hard to please. As I have said, I felt quite airy and blushy this day and the dancing only made it feel more real. Whenever this sort of dream-thing begins to happen in real life, I already know I'm going to be hilarious. I'm going to be the person who is smiling about nothing. I'll be perfectly functional, but everyone will know I am in love. I mean, seriously: I'm made happier than a caterpillar in May to have a dream about something I didn't know I wanted.

I had almost gotten this ridiculous mood out of my system when I took my littlest brother upstairs to change into pajamas. In my room, I found my cat and she looked so sleepy and cuddly that I felt like rummaging her awake and dragging her into my fine humor. I get like this sometimes: I can't leave the cat alone, even if she's sleeping peacefully. I just have to bounce her. So I plopped on the bed beside her, then laced her paw through my fingers and continued the conversation from the dream with my other hand stroking her fine ruff.

And then it happened. The part I couldn't have scripted any better if I'd been writing that screenplay:

Just as I got to the cleverest part of the dream conversation and had almost determined to finish waking the cat by scooping her into my arms and dancing Aurora-wise about the room to annoy her, the dratted beast began to hack up a hairball. Not your normal, easy-going hairball. This one must have been lodged and stuck and never gonna come out, no sir.

"HACK, HACK, HUCKKKKKKK. HACK, HACK." 

I un-laced her paw. I sat up straight. I started to laugh.

"HURKKKKKK, HACK, HACK, HYUCK."

I dumped the choking animal unceremoniously on the floor and watched her body convulse. Get it out, darlin'. My little brother joined the circus and tweeted--yes, tweeted like a bird--every time she hacked and giggled in between It was quite the chorus, I tell you:

"HUCK"

*tweet!*

"HACCCCKKK"

*tweet*

That twinkly, rose-flavored feeling from the day--that in-love for no good reason about no real person--belongs strictly to dreams. It's wonderfully pleasant and I look forward with delight to the rare occasions when I get a vivid dream instead of the whisked-away sort. But the truth is, it's all imaginary. There is no guy in my life who wants to hold my hand and take me to meet his parents and tour his childhood home and laugh over the fact that we're standing in the front yard together and I really just asked if his windows had a good view. No one like that. Not yet. He might be on his way, but he isn't here and the house across the street boasts a tubby country boy and his slender wife and his little-man son and the only person who holds my hand is the three year old on her way to go potty. So while the vividness of the dream is a good substitute for things I have never experienced, the real parts of my life are much more realistic and quite hilarious.

 I'm not a Cinderella or an Aurora and I'm pretty sure that when my man comes, he'll probably not fit the description of the amazing man from the dream (you won't guess who it is. If you do guess, I won't tell you. But it isn't Tom Hiddleston) and he probably won't be your classic Prince Charming. In many ways, he'll probably be better. But I have one requirement for the elusive fella:

He'd better be up for dance parties and hair-balls.