Yesterday I was whining and complaining to my husband about how I want to be a writer more than anything, but the idea of coming up with an original idea and creating complete characters is too overwhelming to me. He agreed, and said if a person could live in their imagination then they could write a book. Their imagination would be their book. I replied with a statement affirming I live in my imagination almost 24 hours a day.
Sad, isn’t it? Well, maybe I exaggerated just a tad. Maybe I’m not in my imagination the whole day. Parts of it, certainly. While I sleep, absolutely.
My sleeping dreams are the source of most of my day dreams. Sometimes I will dream something so incredible that I will think about it for days thereafter. In an effort to try to turn my dreams into a real story I could use I try to add to it, or change things, but I always get stumped at some point and can’t move forward. I can come up with full strings of dialogue in my head, but they never quite make it down on paper. Just like James Taylor’s song, “worked on a letter, but it never made it out of my head...” Pardon, but I had to throw some James in there somewhere.
Music is another stimulus of my imagination. When I put my ear buds in and turn my iPod way up I am locked in my own world and those around me are my characters unaware. That man walking in the parking lot in front of me is just somebody that I used to know. Sweet dreams are made of my time behind the music. In my mind I’m already in the Carolinas. It feels like I’m 17 again. I have to be careful though, because sometimes I find myself walking to the beat, and I would not want anyone to see that dreadfulness.
Maybe one day I will get beyond that stumped point, finish a story and get it all down. Until then, if you see me with a glazed look in my eye, just know I am really hard at work.