Long ago are the days I would play in my back yard. As a child I would play by myself and pretend that my yard was a massive land where unicorns roamed. I could see them so clearly. I would see great white and black mares with horns of glittering gold and diamonds. I never used anything else because I never knew there were gyms of any other color. 5 year olds live in an alternate world.
I then moved on to imaginary children. I would pretend I was a teacher and instruct them in math because I wasn’t very good at anything else, accept of course, pretending. I created people and places that were not real, hence, the passion to write and create masterpieces in my head. My parents thought I would be a teacher, yet, I had bigger things in mind.
Now that I am finally getting into a part of my life where creating stories and writing novels is no one else’s business but mine, it is fun to write. I can create all day long and not be told that writers are starving for a reason. Or that it is best to have a back-up plan. Or You know I hope you never run out of ideas because then you would have to get a real job. Or my personal favorite, you don’t think you can write a whole novel do you?
Writing is not for everyone. But, at some point we all must write. It is a calling within us all. At some point in there lives, everyone will create poetry or a short story. Everyone in the world will have a character in their head begging for an adventure. They are our Drop Dead Fred’s , Our imaginary friends, and very often as we grow, they go away finding a new child to inspire.
But sometimes, no matter how old we get those characters have adventures in our heads. Late at night they visit us in our dreams and in the twilight to tell us of the adventures they have had. They beg us to “Write it down!” in the back of pads of paper or note books. Scribbles on the empty sheets between homework.
If I don’t like the day I am having, I will make up a new one. This is the meaning of reality to me. Anything I can dream and put to paper is as real to me as the glass of wine in my hand and the sun in my window as I lay naked in its rays. What is your reality?