the pretend life of a writer
When I was a kid, the highlight of most days was the fort my sister and I threw together with an old sheet, dining room chairs and the cushions from the couch. We’d crawl in with a flashlight, a bag of Cheetos and plastic cups filled with Kool Aid. We could sit in there for hours just scribbling into a coloring book, arguing over who got the red crayon. Life was simple then, and daydreams were grand adventures that took you to far off places without leaving the comfort of your own home.
Yeah, the life of a writer isn’t much different. I just don’t build the fort anymore.
I was having a particularly bad day yesterday. Reeling from the accusations of family members, angry because I couldn’t “fix” things out of my control. And I hated it. I hate not having control of my entire world, because in my head, I control it all. If I was a character in one of my books, this is the part where I’d off the rest of the characters and bury them in the backyard. You can do that in fiction. No one will arrest you, like they would in the real world. Or you can just pop into another dimension and fall in love with the supernatural (literally).
Being a writer is just like being a kid. There are no boundaries the imagination can’t conquer. An empty tube from a roll of Christmas wrap becomes a sword you can wield in an epic battle. The little garden around your house becomes a deep, dark forest filled with amazing creatures and untold dangers. And a pile of cushions and a sheet becomes an oasis you can hide out in for days.
I just need to find the red crayon, and I’ll be set.
Until the next time…I’ll be hanging out in my fort.