Why I Write
Authors write for many reasons. To me, it was a dream, a dream that so profoundly affected me that I wrote it down. It was this dream that was the impetus for writing the But Always Me series of novels.
When I was a soldier in the U.S. Army, I took part in a training exercise in the Mojave Desert. One night, a dream came to me that was so intense and lifelike that I wrote it down. Never before or since has a dream affected me as much as this one. A sweat-stained pocket notebook still holds the words and feelings I scribbled on its pages.
I will never forget that moment I awoke from the dream, shaking and soaked with sweat. It was so real and lifelike that I wasn’t sure it was over, even after I was fully awake sitting huddled in my sleeping bag.
From my recollection, the dream began with intense physical and emotional pain. I found myself in a prison cell, suspended from the ceiling by my wrists, held by iron shackles attached to a chain looped over a hook. As if through a haze or dim light, I could see my surroundings. Three sides of the room were stone, while the fourth was of iron bars set into the floor and ceiling. Dirty straw littered the stone floor and the air stank of human feces and rotting food while rats scurried through the waste below me.
Though the pain in my arms and wrists was excruciating, something more dreadful was within me. I could feel the tightness in my chest caused by the terror and confusion about where I was and what was happening to me. I felt sure that I was going to die, and I was not ready.
Three men came into my cell and removed me from the hook, and dropped my body onto the floor. They beat me and I was sure that they were going to kill me. I could hear them asking questions, but I couldn’t answer. Then they dragged out of my cell, two of the men on either side, into a blinding light.
It was then I jerked awake. Arms flailing and lungs gasping for breath. I sat up, ripping the sleeping bag from around me. I was in a panic, my body soaked in sweat, and shaking uncontrollably. My breathing came in ragged gasps. I could see nothing but blackness. I didn’t know where I was, and the visions of the dream were still within me. But in only a few seconds, my conscious mind again took over and reality came crashing down. I could smell the desert air and hear the breathing and movement of sleeping soldiers around me, and realized where I was. Not wanting anyone to wake up and question what was happening to me, I laid back down. In the darkness, I tried to remain as still as possible, cringing in a feeling of despair and terror, my arms wrapped around my knees.
From the moment I woke up, I knew the dream had to be a past life memory.
After the military, I started college and began writing a story based on the dream. As I told friends and relatives about the book I was writing, several individuals told me about flashes of “memory” that they had while I spoke. One person told me they could see me through the bars of my prison cell and it matched closely with I had already written. This has only strengthened my belief that the dream was something that really happened to me.