I’m sure you get the idea by now. Personally I can’t bear to expose my inner torment further. In fact, I wonder whether anybody is ever inspired in any detailed way by their own dreams. My guess is that we only get to hear about it after the dream’s been buffed up and made shiny, with a lot of gaps filled in and jaggedy corners rubbed smooth. It’s not that writers are dishonest about this, exactly. It’s just that that’s what writers do.
The great example is Coleridge, of course, who claimed to have dreamed the whole of “Kubla Khan” and then been interrupted by a person from Porlock before he could finish writing it down. That pleasant Somerset village has never recovered from the disgrace, but I share Stevie Smith’s suspicion that Coleridge let the Porlock person take the rap for his own failure of inspiration:
Coleridge received the Person from PorlockAnd ever after called him a curseThen why did he hurry to let him in?He might have hid in the house.It was not right of Coleridge in fact it was wrong(But often we all do wrong)As the truth is I think, he was already stuckWith Kubla Khan.He was weeping and crying, I am finished, finishedI shall never write another word of it,When along comes the Person from PorlockAnd takes the blame for it.