ANDRE BEGIN

The people closest to me know that I tend to have strange dreams.

I’m not talking about dreams in the sense of our hopes and aspirations.

I mean the ones that happen when it is dark outside and we are wrapped up in our cocoons of cozy pillows and blankets while our eyeballs dart around under closed eyelids.

Among the more absurd ones, I have dreamt about coming home to a houseful of talking pets and animated stuffed animals, all invited by Ivy the Wonder Cat, who was also in mid-conversation.

I have dreamt about a work colleague who was nervous about the grand opening of the speakeasy in her basement, designed by another work colleague.

I have also dreamt of being in the Big Brother house and getting very angry at a fellow houseguest and his elderly parents who used up all my soap and shampoo (Note: that one was a while back, when I still had hair.)

Whenever I share the wackiest of wacky dreams with my friends, they either laugh, make that scrunched up WTF look, or they ask me, “What the heck did you eat before bed?”

I do keep a journal on my nightstand because if I am fortunate enough to remember those dreams when I wake up, I love writing them down for future reference.

You just never know. Some of these might be the seeds of ideas for future stories. Or they might just be fodder for a good laugh at the ways my imagination and my subconscious can team up to produce stories I couldn’t create myself if I tried.

What has fascinated me over the years has been some of the recurring dreams.

For example, many times I have dreamt about discovering doors to new rooms in my house that I didn’t know existed. On several occasions, I have also dreamt about losing my wallet.

Apparently, those dreams might have something to do with identity, which doesn’t surprise me given the internal struggle I have felt over the years in being comfortable with the different roles I assumed at the office.

As I approached retirement and the next chapter of life as a writer, the dream that played out with increasing frequency was one where celebrities were my work colleagues, my peers, my equals and it was no big deal.

I wasn’t star-struck, I wasn’t tongue tied, I didn’t feel butterflies. It was just normal.

I have also dreamt about rubbing elbows with celebrities at awards shows, while decked out in a tux, and being remarkably calm over the experience.

What is odd about those is that over the course of my lifetime, on a few rare occasions, I have crossed paths with celebrities which did give me a case of the butterflies. In the spirit of not making a fool of myself, I just smiled, made eye contact and offered a reverential nod. When they acknowledged my nod, more butterflies, of course.

That being the case, when my daydreams about becoming a screenwriter start intersecting with my nighttime dreams, I sometimes wonder if it’s the universe saying “André, prepare yourself… just in case”.

Wouldn’t it be cool if one of my scripts did lead to those dreams becoming a reality?

If it happens, like anything, I’m sure it’ll take getting used to.

But if it doesn’t, it will still be great to dream about the possibility… whether daytime or nighttime.

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Sincere thanks for reading!
Have a great day,
André