Friday, September 13, 2013
I have been making up stories in my head since I was about five years old. It could be a sign of mental illness, or I'm a writer. Well, it could be both, but I'll go with being a writer for now. I think we writers and most children are blessed with a vivid imagination. If we can actually survive our youth and the educational system with our imaginations intact, we are doing quite well.
Often as a writer, I steal from life. A twenty-something grunge street guitarist becomes a character. A Spring meadow after a morning's rain becomes a setting. An overheard conversation becomes dialogue. The jagged scar above a dark eyebrow becomes a story question. My own questions about life become the plot. Everything is fair game when you're a writer. I think it makes you look at life differently, with less of a firm grip.
Sometimes in life, something will happen that seems random and doesn't seem to have much significance, but it becomes the scene that was missing in the novel I'm writing.
I joked recently after some writer's block (which really was just about procrastinating) that I used to be a writer. I realize I was wrong. I am a writer. With every breath I take. Every moment I'm taking in all the sights, scents, sounds that make me a writer.
Making up those stories in my head is what makes me be me.