The Failed Writer's Adventure

A writer like many other writers is currently having a terrible time at writing. You see, again, like most writers, he simply can not come up with an idea. He tries many methods of sparking his creative fire. He listens to beautiful music, looks at beautiful paintings, takes long walks through a, again, beautiful park. He even did the most unimaginable thing, he quietly thought to himself, and for so long that he eventually fell asleep.

This is what he thought during one of his brainstorming sessions (that had been going on for so long that it was now the middle of the night): Ah, yes, there's no way I'm going to come up with any idea that is any good at all, is there? What am I missing? What could it be? Perhaps I'm not living my life as I should? Perhaps I'm not really living at all? Perhaps, just maybe, perhaps if I were to live in a more garish fashion, I would be bestowed with an overflowing fountain of ideas?

Of course, he wasn't entirely right, nor was he entirely wrong. For every one of the most dramatic of actions within them had the tiniest fraction of reason. Though that was still no reason to do what the man had thought to do as the only thing he could. The man went mountain climbing, cliff falling, sky diving, bungee jumping, free running, and all manner of nouns and verbs.

Of course, this was all in his dreams. Even so, when the man awoke he felt a great deal of refreshment (as all people who wake up from a late evening do). And in this state he felt he could write up just about anything, though the man himself would have been happy with anything. And so he went to his typewriter and began to write without end.

He was so inspired and alighted! The man thought that he had never felt anything like this before! Of course, the reason for this was because this also was all still a part of his dream. And just as he was about to puts his eyes on his work - this, this was when he truly woke up.

When the man realized what had transpired, or to be more exact what had not, he was put in a very foul mood. Suddenly, a portal as tall and as wide as a door frame, in the shape of an oval appeared beside his bedside. The man gave it a fleeting glance believing himself to still be within a dream. Of course, he wasn't.

From the portal gunfire and shouting could be heard. A pox on it, the man thought, at least earlier the dream was pleasant, what's all this? He looked again at the portal and could see images of battle and some sorry lot praying for a savior. In no mood to help in what seemed to be such a dangerous situation the man turned around to the other side of his bed and buried himself under his blankets. The portal grew even louder from the roar of what sounded to the man like a lion.

The man proceeded to cover his ears with his pillow. The roaring grew ever louder. The man as he was, in a foul mood from the waking of his wondrous dream and now, being barraged by such rudeness, he could take no more. He let go of his pillow, threw his blankets off, and jumped into the portal to give whatever thing disturbing his sleep a peace of his mind. Of course, this was all completely really happening.

@Femme Fatale This isn't exactly the story you pitched, but it's what I thought up when I thought of the first third of The Color of the Wind that I have read. I hope you find it sufficient.