I’ve had a lot of zombie dreams over the years. And yes, I’ve watched more than my fair share of zombie shows and movies—so I’m sure that’s partly to blame. For most of my adult life, anytime I walked into a new space, I’d instinctively scan for the best exit route in case of a sudden zombie invasion.
I can’t be the only one who does this, right?
A Dream That Became a Story
One particular dream stuck with me and eventually became the seed of my book The Resurrection Incident. At the time, I still called the creatures in my dream “zombies,” even though that label didn’t quite fit.
In the dream, I was on a spaceship, walking through dim hallways with a group of people. We all had a shared sense of urgency—something was coming. We didn’t know what, just that we had to hide. We found a mechanical room and ducked inside.
Then they appeared.
The Floating Undead (But Not Really)
They didn’t look like traditional zombies. They floated about a foot off the ground, their eyes glowing blood-red, bobbing eerily as they moved. When they entered the room, the people around me began to explode into parts—and then rise again as creatures like the ones who’d just entered.
I knew I was next. I could feel something stirring inside me, about to shift.
Then I had a moment of lucidity. I became aware that I was dreaming—and I realized I was in control. In that surreal moment, I could see my vast, energetic body stretched across space. It turned, slowly, like a cosmic being waking up. And then it opened its eyes…
I stood up in the dream and faced the creatures. I pulled the plug on whatever power was animating them—and they dropped to the ground in piles.
From “Space Zombies” to “Resurrects”
When I woke up, I remembered every detail. That dream became one of those stories I circled for years—freewrites, chapter starts, rewrites, new outlines. At one point, I called it Zelwa and the Space Zombies. Later, it became Jarem and the Space Zombies. But as the world deepened, I realized “zombie” didn’t quite fit.
They weren’t undead—they were something else. Something tied to energy, resurrection, and transformation. So I renamed them: resurrects.
I thought “The Resurrection Incident” might be a single novel, but I later had a few people ask me if there would be more and, what do you know, I had an idea for a sequel. I just have to clear out a few more books before I get to it. 😊
Ready to Explore The Resurrection Incident?
If you’re into:
Sci-fi with a spiritual/metaphysical twist
Floating red-eyed beings that may or may not be zombies
Dreams that rewrite the rules of reality
And characters who wake up to more than just danger…
At various times in my life, I’ve written them down—sometimes just to remember them, sometimes to try to understand them. A few were so vivid they’ve stayed with me like memories, even ones I had as a teenager (or younger). They shaped how I viewed myself and the world. I used to wonder what it meant to have the same dream over and over again. Why that image? That story?
When I got my driver’s license as a teen, one of the first things I was excited to do was drive myself to the public library. Up until then, I’d only had access to school libraries—but this was a new world.
I would leave with a backpack so stuffed with books, it bulged at the seams. I kind of miss those days.
Strange Shelves and Quiet Spark
In the little rural town I grew up in, there was one narrow aisle in the library with a small cluster of books on dream interpretation, reincarnation, ghosts, psychology, and religion. I devoured everything I could find.
That’s where I discovered the work of Dr. Ian Stevenson, Edgar Cayce, and likely Joseph Campbell. A memoir called Welcome, Silence—about one woman’s experience with schizophrenia—also made a deep impression on me.
All of that fueled my curiosity about things that can’t be easily explained. And, as you might expect, my writing took some unusual turns during that time (and let’s be honest—it still does).
A Psychic, a Folded Dollar, and “The Work”
In college, a friend of mine visited a psychic. I was intrigued. I knew the house—just off the highway I drove past every day to get to class. So I made an appointment.
Honestly? It was a bit underwhelming. It felt like the woman was just trying to upsell me. My friend had told me her reading, and strangely, I was told nearly the same thing—though I hadn’t mentioned anything in advance.
The woman gave me a folded dollar bill and said I’d either see that its face had changed and return, or I wouldn’t—and I’d never come back.
(Spoiler: I never went back.)
But she did say something that stuck with me.
She described using her intuition as “going into the work.”
That phrase sparked my imagination. I began picturing the universe as an enormous, steampunk-like energetic machine, and sleep as a way we plug into it—accidentally or intuitively. Maybe we all go into the work when we dream.
The poem below came out of that idea. I think I was 18 or 19 when I wrote it. It’s simple, but still resonates.
The Work (by Sheila Lee Brown circa 1996-7)
At night one goes unknowingly into the work – – eyes closed, breathing rhythmic. The body continues with minimal effort as the mind-spirit-soul merges more completely with the mechanics of consciousness. No self, yet all self. It moves – – Bolted in mortality, fueled by blood, edging towards something greater and surreal. Visions come that baffle the optic nerves and intimate God, the unliving present; and one awakes, calling it a dream.
One More Story (for Another Time)
Later in life, I visited a hypnotherapist and went through a past-life regression—which was a very different kind of experience.
But that’s a story for another post. 😊
Where Do Your Dreams Go?
Over the years, writing down my dreams has helped me track patterns, explore symbols, and spark story ideas I never would have uncovered otherwise.
If you’d like a space for your own dreamwork, I’ve created a Dream Journal that you can find in my shop. It’s simple, magical, and made for nights just like the ones we talked about above.
I created the graphic below years ago when I was a raw foodist and making my first attempt at being a writer and creator full time.
It still makes me smile each time I see it. Hopefully, you are at least mildly amused. I ate a lot of bananas in those days.
I’m not saying that procrastination has disappeared from my experience. Sometimes it takes me longer to recognize it than I would like to admit. However, once noticed, I have found ways to squirm my way out of its sneaky grip.
Fear in Disguise
I personally find that I procrastinate most often because I am afraid to start something and not do it well. Or, I think that I will waste time doing it wrong and have to start over. So instead of beginning, I end up playing mental chess with myself—trying to foresee every move before I make it.
Spoiler: That’s not how creativity works. Or life, really.
Just Look It Up
One time I told a friend I was stuck on a scene because I didn’t know much about the topic. They stared at me and said, “Just look it up.”
I wanted it to be harder than that. It wasn’t.
That’s when I remembered: We don’t have to figure it all out alone. Between books, articles, podcasts, videos, and actual conversations with smart people, there’s an abundance of help at our fingertips.
Of course, there’s also the danger of falling into an eternal research spiral. (Ask me about my deep dive into obscure types of rope knots. Or don’t.) I’ve found that setting a timer for research helps. When it dings, I get back to the page—even if I don’t feel “ready.”
My Secret Weapon
Want to know what really kicks me into gear?
My husband.
He’s one of those magical creatures who just does stuff.
He doesn’t worry if it’s perfect. He doesn’t plan himself into a corner. He sees what needs doing and then… does it.
Watching him helps me remember that action doesn’t have to be fearless—it just has to start.
And if it doesn’t go as planned? I can pivot. I can adapt. I can learn.
Structure, Lists, and Shifting Landscapes
I’ve also learned to lean into planning and structure.
Time blocks, lists, and small achievable goals give me just enough accountability to bypass perfectionism. It’s not always about massive output—it’s about showing up and seeing what happens.
And in the end, I find the creative process to be an ongoing journey in which the terrain changes, I change, and the days are a mix of visiting new and old pathways—each freshly wonderful in what they show me of life.
I was raised in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS). While I don’t consider myself an active Mormon today, I was baptized in the Darlington Ward and stayed there until around age 10 or 11, when that ward closed. From then on, my family attended the Hartsville Ward. I remained involved until I was 19.
Growing up LDS came with structure and values I appreciated. The emphasis on goodness, kindness, and service resonated with me. Compared to the often confusing and cruel behavior I witnessed outside the church, it felt like a sanctuary.
But then something shifted.
A Moment at Camp That Changed Everything
I had an experience in Young Women’s Church camp when I was 13 that shifted how I saw the church. It didn’t help that a lot of unpleasantness was happening to people I cared about in my personal and school life. It was a confusing time with many, many things to process for a young, expanding mind.
Anyway, that particular experience at camp always occurred to me as a pivotal point in my belief system. For a 13-year old just wanting to trust the world, I felt that I couldn’t – not even in a church environment. My sister was at camp with me and she and I often stewed over the injustice we felt.
From Anger to Insight
As most writers, I love using writing as a cathartic process. I have been circling this story for many years, giving it the tentative title, “Sentenced”. It felt like more than just a journal entry for me to work through privately. At one time, I wanted to write it as a way of highlighting hypocrisy in order to release my young adult anger self-righteously.
I never could finish it that way. It felt trite. I got stuck and the story didn’t seem to want to go further and I didn’t want to force it to be what I wanted. I knew instinctively that there was more for me to uncover so I would know what the real story needed to be.
Many years of self-reflection later…
I opened the file for “Sentenced” and read it with fresh eyes. I realized that I felt really heavy reading it and that I also didn’t feel the anger or injustice that I once did. No one did anything intentionally hurtful. We were just human beings bumping up against each other in the way that we do. I decided to start revising the story and creating it in a way that was fun for me. From there, the ideas began popping and I was off.
What Sentenced Became
Sentenced is no longer a rant. It’s a surreal, funny, and heartfelt little journey through guilt, expectation, and otherworldly judgment. It’s about what happens when three teen girls find themselves facing cosmic consequences for things they don’t fully understand.
There’s a glow-y celestial visitor. There are mosquito swarms and snack-cakes. And underneath it all? There’s a deeper question about how we measure goodness—and who gets to decide.
What to Read Sentenced?
You can find it on Amazon or in your library’s Overdrive.
It seems that my mom and grandmother were always dressing my sister Marie and me up in little lacy things. And, okay, I’ll admit that as a young girl I liked the little black shoes and wearing the gloves. I think Marie and I always looked forward to Easter each year and the prospect of a new pair of white gloves.
That said, I am certain this was a picture taken on Easter. Marie and I are standing on the front porch steps of my grandmother’s house (that’s me on the top step). Those gargantuan azalea bushes behind us were the inspiration for my story, The Azaleas.
A Living Wall of Color
The azalea bushes at my grandmother’s house were huge when we were children and they were still pretty large when I moved into my grandmother’s house while I was in college and even later when I lived there from 2002 to 2010.
Keeping them trimmed back during the summer was quite a chore because I liked to keep them at least a foot away from touching the house and just below the front windows. It was a lot of work. They grew fast and furious. One day I was trimming away and the story “The Goophered Grapevine” by Charles Waddell Chestnut popped into my head. It was a great story about a man whose life gets connected to a bewitched grapevine. When the grapes grow lush and healthy in the spring and summer, so does the man. In the winter, he gets shriveled and dry like the grapevine.
Where Story and Roots Intertwine
That seed of an idea took root in my imagination. From there, The Azaleas grew—a tale with its own strange logic and quiet sense of enchantment. I eventually developed the character, the conflict, and the slightly magical twist.
An earlier version of the story was published in Beyond the Clouds, and now I’m thrilled to share a revised version as a free gift for readers.
Want to Read the Story?
The Azaleas is a short, haunting tale of the dark side of family and the invisible threads that bind us to the places we come from.
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