they call me writer

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.

Copyright © 2000-2018, Erica Lucke Dean. All rights reserved. Any retranscription or reproduction is prohibited and illegal.
Posted on August 26, 2011 .