On edges and extremes, singular distress.
A blank page or a capture by a character
with issues, I fumble towards a dark and
stinky mess. What madness! Deprived of
sleep, of nourishment and other things I
care not to talk about. I visit a doctor and
declare I’m zonked out. He tells me to take
sleep; a prescription that fixes problems.
I go home ready to take sleep, and muse
says no: “You call yourself a writer, write!”
Legs cramping and fingers unfeeling, I sit
and I write. As dawn approaches, a voice
screams: “I need sleep!” and the computer
says no. Side effects? I haven’t even started.
This is, the dark side of creativity. And the
luminary still asks, what do I do for a living?
Note:I’m never bored because I laugh at myself, and people think I’m sane.
“My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.” ~ John Keats
Growing up in the countryside rewarded with plenty of time to observe things. We didn’t have TV at home during my early childhood. So reading, oral storytelling and playing outdoors were forms of entertainment. It was after those outdoor activities, I penned down my observations. For example, I would fill a book page with “a bee flies from flower to flower to flower to flower…” You get the picture.
“Then what happened?” asked my mom one day, when she saw the notebook.
“I don’t know.”
As you can see, my imagination was nonexistent or not yet developed. I had no ability to invent stories but rather presented things as they were.
But I was also a daydreamer. I mean here, the kind of fancy that yields no result. And my yearning? A taste of bubblegum flavoured ice cream. I missed the city.
So, am I a realist or a daydreamer? Do I have to choose?
In any case, books such as A Christmas Carol, The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus and many more classics played a huge role in developing and stretching my imagination.
And now that I live not far from Santa, I’ve not only seen reindeers but I eat their meat too, I’m submerged in snow for months (things I read about and imagined as a child), I acknowledge the power of imagination.
Therefore, Keat’s quote above rings true. It even urged me to invent my own version, ever since I swapped stilettos for hiking boots. But that’s a post for another day.
The Fells of Lapland
This post was inspired by a fellow blogger, Charles French. Please checkout his blog if you haven’t, and be stimulated by his exploration of writing and reading.
