As a child, I had imaginary friends. And although I don’t remember them, my mother tells me I had rather lengthy conversations with mine. I was always off in my own little world, making up magical companions and fanciful places to explore.
I think this was the first clue that I would grow up to be a writer.
But a writer doesn’t live in the same world as other people. When you see the utterly impossible, I see endless possibilities. When you feel empty, I am filled with promise. A stick is never just a stick it’s a pirate sword, or a light saber. A dark shadow is never just an empty corner, but a portal to another dimension swarming with unseen dangers. I spend a good bit of my time dwelling in this enchanted land of my own making, tucked away with the countless characters I have created out of the same dark nothingness some can’t seem to escape. I breathe life into these characters, passing their thoughts, feelings and experiences onto you, the reader.
Right…so in simple terms this basically means I hear voices. If I called myself anything other than a writer, men in white coats would show up at my doorstep with a straight jacket and a needle filled with happy juice.
But a being a writer doesn’t make me crazy. I do hear voices, but I know those voices are coming from within myself. They aren’t nameless imaginary friends. Those voices are pockets of creativity bubbling up and forcing their way out.
I need those voices…they’re a part of me.
And maybe I am just a little bit nuts around the edges…sort of like a garnish. I mean, I may not talk to imaginary friends anymore but I do sometimes talk to my cat. He doesn’t speak English though, so it’s usually a short conversation.
Until the next time…I’ll be hanging out in imagination land with a hottie named Cooper.