I remember the first 'story' I ever told. It was about the monster in my bedroom. It seemed to me my parents didn't take my nightmares seriously so I created a fabulous story about this creature that grew out of the patterns on the wallpaper. I felt this would cement my reality with proof. My parents decided I was seeking attention.
Through the years though, I just found ordinary life boring. I would watch people in stores and think up a tale to fill in around their conversations. I believed in every imaginary holiday figure and most of all, I believed in the magic of nature. Tiny fairies lived everywhere. I loved Disneyland and it seemed more real to me than everyday life. My parent and teachers labeled me a dreamer and worked hard to bring me into reality. I would escape their grasp through my new found freedom of reading.
A childhood coping mechanism became burying myself in the world of books when I wasn't creating stories myself. When the parents struggled with their marriage or the stress of raising four kids, you could find me draped in the boughs of the maple tree in our front yard adventuring with hobbits or warping through space.
As I got older, I began to get real creative with stories to get out of being disciplined. I reasoned since I was going to get into trouble anyway, the gamble of telling a lie convincingly enough to be spared was worth it. I remember once challenging the nun who was my teacher at the time, on what the difference between lies and fiction actually was. Sternly she lectured me but it didn't help define the boundaries between the two.
I understand now it is simply the difference between a moral right and wrong and imagination. That doesn't mean I'm any less apt to find stories in everything around me. Or hunger to buffer the sorrows and difficulties of this world through a moment lost in the happiness of an imaginary world where one lives without such trifles as paying the bills or growing old. I'm not saying the world we live in isn't filled with miracles, beauty and bountiful joys, just that having to do laundry, worry about the rent, the health of my loved ones, etc, can't be a little overwhelming at times.
The world of imagination fuels my belief that there is something more to the human spirit and there is a life more beautiful beyond this one. Some may think I'm lying to myself to believe this, but I would argue better to have fiction in my life than no hope at all. Meanwhile, I will continue to tell stories to my grandchildren and fill their heads with nonsense.
Wanting to share my love of fiction I now fuel my passion by writing my own stories. I want to share the treat of escaping worldly troubles every now and then. As you read my humble outpouring of imagination, I hope you can join with me and immerse yourself in my world.
Through the years though, I just found ordinary life boring. I would watch people in stores and think up a tale to fill in around their conversations. I believed in every imaginary holiday figure and most of all, I believed in the magic of nature. Tiny fairies lived everywhere. I loved Disneyland and it seemed more real to me than everyday life. My parent and teachers labeled me a dreamer and worked hard to bring me into reality. I would escape their grasp through my new found freedom of reading.
A childhood coping mechanism became burying myself in the world of books when I wasn't creating stories myself. When the parents struggled with their marriage or the stress of raising four kids, you could find me draped in the boughs of the maple tree in our front yard adventuring with hobbits or warping through space.
As I got older, I began to get real creative with stories to get out of being disciplined. I reasoned since I was going to get into trouble anyway, the gamble of telling a lie convincingly enough to be spared was worth it. I remember once challenging the nun who was my teacher at the time, on what the difference between lies and fiction actually was. Sternly she lectured me but it didn't help define the boundaries between the two.
I understand now it is simply the difference between a moral right and wrong and imagination. That doesn't mean I'm any less apt to find stories in everything around me. Or hunger to buffer the sorrows and difficulties of this world through a moment lost in the happiness of an imaginary world where one lives without such trifles as paying the bills or growing old. I'm not saying the world we live in isn't filled with miracles, beauty and bountiful joys, just that having to do laundry, worry about the rent, the health of my loved ones, etc, can't be a little overwhelming at times.
The world of imagination fuels my belief that there is something more to the human spirit and there is a life more beautiful beyond this one. Some may think I'm lying to myself to believe this, but I would argue better to have fiction in my life than no hope at all. Meanwhile, I will continue to tell stories to my grandchildren and fill their heads with nonsense.
Wanting to share my love of fiction I now fuel my passion by writing my own stories. I want to share the treat of escaping worldly troubles every now and then. As you read my humble outpouring of imagination, I hope you can join with me and immerse yourself in my world.
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