Dreams are such funny things. Not only do they reveal truths about your thought process—which in that case, I’m sure Sigmund Fraud would’ve loved me as a case study—but they help inspire the imagination.
I’m in my old high school, after hours. My old backpack hangs over one shoulder as I walk through the familiar halls. The school is completely empty, just how I like it. I would usually find a little hidden nook to do homework, or sketch, or write. Easy-peasy. I know this place like the back of my hand.
So why can’t I find the exit?
I pass through several classrooms and even several bathrooms, but there aren’t any doors leading to the outside. Not even the enclosed courtyard! And the halls are starting to lead to dead ends that never existed.
It was like the school had become a labyrinth.
I finally stumble to my locker, which is weird. I don’t remember it being across from the girl gym lockers before, but at least it’s something familiar. I go to open it, entering a random combination I seem to know by heart, when sudden I’m pulled away and forced to turn around.
A boy stands in front of me. I know him as someone I don’t like or trust. Yet his smile, I can’t seem to pull my vision away from it as he talks too rapidly for me to understand a single word he says. Besides, I’m too freaked by how close he is to me. He’s in my personal space, and I don’t know how to feel about it. Should I just go with it? Should I shove him away? Maybe kick him in the balls? Before I can decide, his lips are on mine in an awkward kiss, which sends my head spinning. My entire body cringes, and nausea takes hold of my stomach.
Unfortunately, I’m also paralyzed. My brain has completely shut down for some unknown reason, and I just can’t think straight. I watch him pull away with a gleeful grin, holding my backpack in his hand. Yet I don’t move. I know I should yell, shout, maybe even tackle him, but I’m in shock from the kiss that still tingles my lips.
I watch him take off with my possessions, and the next thing I realize is I’m on the floor, the entire building burning all around me. I call for help, but my throat is too dry and too sore to even cry a harsh whisper. I cough, try get to my knees and crawl, only to collapse again. I can’t get out. I have no clue where I am or where an exit might be. So I let myself fall back to the floor, praying for someone—anyone—to help.
What I didn’t expect was see the boy who just used a kiss to deceive me. He kneels over me, speaking once again. I think he’s even saying my name, but I can’t make it out. I head is too fogged over to concentrate. I can only tell by his expression that he’s in a panic as he desperately tries to pull me to my feet. Yet my body has already given up the fight. So, in a last ditch effort, he lifts me up and carries me out, finding the exit which I had failed to find before . . .
To those who have read Daughter of Isis already, this dream should sound somewhat familiar. In fact, it’s the one that started it all. This is the first scene I ever wrote for the Descendant of Isis series before the concept was even fully developed. Interesting, right? I mean, who would’ve guess that a full trilogy could stem from just one dream?
Yet it wasn’t so much the dream itself that captured my attention. These sorts of dreams (labyrinths, feeling lost or chased by some sort of danger, never finding a way out, being an inch from death before waking up) are typical for me. I still get them, even today, and I reflect many of these aspects in my other books as well. But there was one anomaly I couldn’t get out of my head: the boy who saved me.
I’m sure my dream books could have told me what it meant, but honestly, I wasn’t interested in the meaning of the dream. I was interested in the boy’s backstory. Apparently, I knew who he was in my dream, but I wanted to know who he really was? What was he looking for in my backpack? And why come back to rescue me after he had clearly gotten what he wanted?
Slowly, I started answering my own questions, writing them in a journal. The story blossomed quickly, and a day later, I brought in the Isis and Osiris story into play, along with the tale of Ra’s secret name. Kind of amazing, really. I never had a book hit me quite like Daughter of Isis. All because of a boy—one I obviously didn’t fully like, ironically—in a dream.