Not a Mary Shelley Experience
I had what I thought was going to be a Mary Shelley Experience as I woke up this morning. The dream still floating around in my semi-conscious state seemed so real, so vivid, so intriguing that I was convinced I had an idea for a best-selling thriller.
Unfortunately, as is so often the case with dreams, once I attempted to explain it to my extraordinarily patient wife, the cohesion of plot, characterisation and dialogue just evaporated. Suddenly the notion of a Mafiosi-style gang of grandmothers taking over the city after an earthquake, dealing with dissenters by deadly use of cut-throat razors, while my mother-in-law came out of a coma to lead the resistance, lacked the force and conviction that had occupied my mind just minutes before.
Unfortunately, as is so often the case with dreams, once I attempted to explain it to my extraordinarily patient wife, the cohesion of plot, characterisation and dialogue just evaporated. Suddenly the notion of a Mafiosi-style gang of grandmothers taking over the city after an earthquake, dealing with dissenters by deadly use of cut-throat razors, while my mother-in-law came out of a coma to lead the resistance, lacked the force and conviction that had occupied my mind just minutes before.
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