As y'all know, I lay little credence by my dreams, and seldom talk about them; I'm generally bored by other people's, and assume the reverse is also true.
But I do just want to record this morning's incident, because I don't think it has ever happened to me before. I've been a lucid dreamer all my life, frequently aware that I was dreaming even as I dreamed; the passage from dreaming to waking is frequently marked by a transition from 3-D full-colour all-immersive action to frank narrative, text on a page and my own voice selecting it word by word; there is of course a long history of writers reworking their dreams into fiction; and nevertheless. This was the first time I have ever paused in mid-dream to think, "Y'know, this could surely be worked up into a YA novel..."
I will, of course, never write it; but it would have been called At the Back of the Sixth Wind, which was what a bell-boy said when he was directing me to a hidden stairwell in a troubled hotel; and what he meant was a door behind the number 6 on a great clockface, and the clock still worked but they had forgotten its purpose and thought it was a malfunctioning wind-gauge, because of course their winds came in a vertical plane, up or down the staircases and lift-shafts.
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