This Fourth of July I awoke from one of the most powerful dreams of my life.

Elizabeth and I had somehow been invited to work with a beautiful tribe of Native Americans on a new mystery television series. We had both been given an extraordinary creative opportunity that had appeared completely out of nowhere, and we were both genuinely happy. She went off with the women of the tribe to learn their cooking.

I then found myself in a writers’ room was inside an old prison cell beneath a church.

The image has stayed with me all day.

As a writer, that prison cell now feels like the perfect metaphor. Writing can feel like both a sanctuary and a prison. A story won’t let you leave until you’ve found its truth. There is joy in it, but there is also responsibility. Every storyteller knows the feeling of living inside that cell until the work is finished.

The leader of the group was the sheriff from Dark Winds. He was the respected elder, and at first he clearly didn’t want me there. Every idea I offered seemed to be dismissed before I could even finish explaining it.

One idea never made it out of my mouth.

I imagined the heroine arriving in a beautifully restored 1950s automobile—perhaps converted to electric power—a woman who honored tradition while embracing the future. Before I could paint the picture, the sheriff cut me off.

To counter this, I began talking about my own life.

I told him I had once built skyscrapers. In the dream I said several. In waking life I led one skyscraper project while spending years helping shape many others. Dreams don’t always speak in literal facts. Sometimes they speak in emotional truth.

Then I surprised myself.

I invited the sheriff and his young braves to my funeral.

Not because I was dwelling on death, but because I knew we were all going to become dear friends. I told them I was the old man in the room, that they were young, and they would almost certainly outlive me. Someday, years from now, I imagined the tribe gathering to celebrate my life because our friendship had become that deep.

That changed everything.

The room softened.

The sheriff finally listened.

I described my heroine, a Native woman, whose tribe had discovered gold generations earlier, making her extraordinarily wealthy. Suddenly the sheriff and I weren’t competing anymore.

We were collaborating.

Later we were outside together. Tiny little bears wandered among us. I gently tickled one on its belly until it relaxed so completely that it simply rolled over in trust.

The sheriff then offered an idea of his own.

He wanted the villain to be a white man.

I smiled, bumped my fist against his, and told him it was perfect. In the dream I imagined the character as a MAGA figure who would find enlightenment about his racsim limiting his life, but what mattered wasn’t politics. What mattered was that we were no longer protecting our own ideas. We were building something together.

I hurried back toward the writers’ room beneath the church to write everything down before I forgot it.

In my hands I carried a strange object—a light silver-gray gun with ten barrels. It didn’t feel like a weapon. Looking back, I believe it represented my ten best screenplays, five of which Elizabeth has in realm life run through a Swiss based AI called Largo that has having a $2 billion potential box office. Decades of ideas branching into more ideas until they sometimes become so large and complex that they take years to untangle.

As I approached the prison cell, the gun became loose and awkward. I couldn’t carry it anymore.

I set it down.

When I reached the writers’ room, I couldn’t find the doorway.

Inside, however, I could sense an extraordinary spiritual energy. Brilliant sparks danced through the room. It wasn’t frightening. It was magnificent.

I wasn’t frustrated that I couldn’t get in.

I simply stood there in awe.

As I’ve reflected on the dream throughout the day, another realization arrived.

The sheriff wasn’t just the sheriff.

He was Darren Dean. An award winning producer who has worked with Oscar winning director Sean Baker. I am blessed that Dareen is consulting with me on a polish of SECRET INGREDIENTS. I’ve found my tribe.

For thirty years I built a second life as a storyteller after leaving real estate. The architect in me never disappeared. He simply learned to build with characters instead of concrete.

I’m going to finish my life as a storyteller.

I’m going to finish it beside Elizabeth, whose faith in me has never wavered, even when mine has.

And perhaps most importantly, I’m going to create amazing friends.

On this 250th birthday of America, amid all the division, noise, and uncertainty surrounding us, my dream offered a different vision.

Not one tribe conquering another.

Not one generation replacing another.

But strangers becoming collaborators.

Collaborators becoming dear friends.

And together, writing a better story.

Happy Fourth of July.

May we all find our tribe.