I know a lot of authors say they get thier ideas from dreams, but when I'm not dreaming something too personal or frustrating, it's too bizarre to share. Here's a case in point from last week:
I was in the White House (already stretching the bounds of believability), and President Obama was wrangling geese. He was in a blue suit, chasing down the geese, grabbing them by the neck and hoisting them over the fence out of the White House lawn. I told my daughter that he'd had special training to do this. Then he shooed one out a partially open fence, but it got stuck and some kids pushed it out with a wagon.
Next, we were in the White House kitchens, but it looked like the kind of kitchen/dining room you'd find in an old trailer--cramped, cluttered and dark. Dirty dishes in the sink. Obama said he was hungry, and we were looking around for something to cook for dinner. I nuked peas and butter, but he heated up some hazelnuts. He said he wanted a whole bag of nuts.
Then, the polar bears in the pits in the back yard started making a ruckus, and Obama opened the window above the sink to feed them. It was a crank-style window, like you find in old houses. He tossed them a nut each, then closed the window.
He leaned against the counter, and that's when I noticed he looked like Dick Van Dyke (which I thought was a relief because I think Obama is an ugly looking man.) He told me that he didn't know how the bears could be so happy when their daughter, Blondie, had been sold to China. He told me he'd visited Blondie in China and it was the happiest trip he'd ever had. He'd never laughed so hard as he had with Blondie.
Then some other people cam over, and we literally pushed aside all the junk on the table to one side so we could sit and talk. Just as someone asked about my books. I actually had an answer, but the dream faded, and I woke up thinking, "It figures. I never get the chance to talk about my books."
Now, perhaps, you understand why I don't write novels from my dreams.