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The Naked Face (). - Click HERE to Download in EPUB Format Tell Me Your Dreams (). - Click HERE to Download in EPUB Format. Home>; FICTION>; General>; Tell Me Your Dreams - EPUB. Share This Title: Tell Me Your Dreams. Read a Sample · Enlarge Book Cover · Left hand banner -. Epub Share: Tell me Your Dreams by Sidney Sheldon.
Remember the helmet bounce? Completely destroyed the helmet. His concern was for my well being. I did not have to pay a dime for his equipment. Good man. I had a powerful, good experience.
The emotional impact was huge. The joy was very high. I wanted that experience again.
I wanted it a lot. My mind and body remembered every detail of that experience and did everything right to have that experience again.
However, conditions had changed.
Failure was inevitable. The cyclic deteriorating fallacy of personal experience works like this.
We seek a result. Three more sell. The rest garner rejections. We would probably look at the other two as well. Suppose we discover that each story had an unrequited love element, a female protagonist with red hair, and a mountain resort. Well, that one should have the best details for allowing us to sell more since we already did the love, femred, and mountain bit. It happened during ski season at the mountain resort.
So, now we write stories that have love, femreds, winter ski resorts. In the same way that physics is a bitch, underlying principles of story are a bitch. Trial-and-error is biased in favor of the cyclic deteriorating fallacy of personal experience.
In the same way making all the same moves in the hang glider resulted in a crash, isolating the apparent patterns of success from successive successful stories will result in a crash. Unless… We are very clear that the analysis and subsequent attempts to create results must include expansive experimentation based on principles rather than emotional impressions of success or failure.
I call that playful experimentation a. Adding the ceaseless, restless part is the important bit to me. The ceaseless, restless bit means that I must constantly test my world and my boundaries. Instead, I have bent genres and searched for how one informs another. I have assumed, sometimes incorrectly, that each genre has its own tricks and techniques to teach me.
I have assumed that experimentation across genres would bring me insights and techniques that could not be had as long as I returned to the same hill where I had success and attempted to fly in exactly the same way as when I had that success. To beat the fallacy of cyclic deteriorating personal experience, apply the principle of unsupervised play. In fact, to keep writing from getting stale, I recommend many of the techniques used by children. In another essay, I describe the parallel play process, which in turn came from the restless, ceaseless experimentation with words and tales and forms and processes.
Playful experimentation requires several things adults are often in short supply of. First, it requires the ability to completely divorce oneself from any sense of risk. That is, the story a writer is playing with must not be under deadline.
It must not be part of an expectation of material or pride success.
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It must not be for this magazine, that anthology, to that publisher. Playful experimentation requires the worry-free mindset of a child exploring a newly discovered, vacant field.
The writer must be able dash there, and there, and over there while also pausing to pick up a stick to slash at weeds or turn into the spear of Ajax or into a rifle or crutch. Second, it requires a sense of whimsy combined with a desire to understand. To approach writing as a thing of rigid process is not playful. To get to a space of discovery, the writer must be willing to do things that seem stupid in the moment but then, unexpectedly, force the subconscious to step in to create a pattern that becomes the discovery.
Third, it requires an idea of what can be done. Forcing the hang glider to go up without an updraft does not work. The principles of aerodynamics and gravity do not allow it.
For example, most writers know that stories generally create emotional changes in characters by stressing those characters through conflict. It is a universal principle of stories. Some writers I know argue that without it, the text is not a story and falls to the category of mere personal essay or memoir. I would argue that few personal essays or memoirs are not stories.
I would also argue that most, if not all, powerful personal essays and memoirs revolve around some core conflict. I digress. Taking the underlying principle of conflict, one approach to ceaseless, restless experimentation is to employ the principle in an experiment of randomness.
Pick a handful of silly things and try to employ the principle of conflict while connecting the silly things. Personally, I often pick a principle, roll a set of ten-sided dice several times to come up with three or more random, four-digit numbers, then find those numbers on a long list of observations, objects, insights, and thoughts that I keep. I put those randomly selected elements at the top of a page then write as fast as I can in an effort to execute the principle.
The randomness of the objects forces the subconscious to attempt to create a pattern connection between the objects. The chosen principle forces a construct that will either succeed or break. Either way, something is gained from the effort.
Sometimes, seeing a failure unfold reveals new patterns, new methods of allowing the reader to see or feel the moment on the page. Sometimes, seeing the experiment succeed within the structure of the principle results in new understanding and skill in the execution of the principle. Worst case for the above experiment is that the writer has fun and the brain is given a set of patterns principles to which it becomes tuned and to which it begins to, or continues to, adapt.
You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden. Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything.
He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions.
The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway. I will tell you. It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria.
Oh, their wild rapture!
Analysis of the Main Theme in Sidney Sheldon’s Tell Me Your Dreams Essay
The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride.
Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say! You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest. We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven.
The poet is always in revolt. You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt. Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars—the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.
With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company. Do you mean what you say now? Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it. Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions.
For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one. And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety.
All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him. Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world.
To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over.
And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night.
For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream. When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised in some odd way that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one.
Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself.
The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory.
He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe. He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned.
About what? Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself—there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before.
The captain of a penny steamer if I remember correctly at Southend. You have irritated me. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to prove to you that you were wrong in what you said. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious. Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious?
Is the whole caboodle serious? Is it really true that you have one? Will you swear that!She thinks someone's broken into her house. Good man.
There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it.
Not even the sound of a breeze in the grass, and at that moment I understood what I had done wrong. The Naked Face. The second half of the novel deals with the trial, complete with endless squabbling between opposing psychiatrists as to whether or not MPD is real.