The Power of Imagination

In my quest to see things differently, I’ve opted out of the trite method of standing on a desk, lying on the floor, doing a headstand, or looking backward through a mirror. I write fiction, and I use my imagination to picture the bizarre, scary, and disgustingly cute aspects of life even when I’m not writing. Here are some of my examples...

 

Behind the uniform and smile of my friendly mailman lurks the madman plotting ghastly deeds with every mailbox he fills. The woman at the grocery store who rushes ahead of me to be first in line isn’t rude. If she doesn’t finish her shopping within half an hour, she will be doomed to live the rest of her life trapped in another dimension. The auto mechanic who overcharges me becomes Lord of the Rats when his shop closes, and reigns supreme over his disease-ridden minions. How about an even larger example of my out of control imagination...

At my local Walmart, dozens of pigeons live on top of the roof. I think that’s the case with every store. I believe they're hired as security birds. Imagine the scene every morning as each one clocks in, has a miniature camera strapped to their leg, then positions themselves on the roof as proud members of the Security Bird Fleet, or the S.B.F. Their mission: to stop any suspicious person in the parking lot by madly beating their wings against the helpless offender until human help arrives. Ahh, what an interesting place my head is to live and work in. Never a dull moment, that's for sure. If I wasn't a writer, I may just be labeled as a loon. My plots, however, save me from that.

My imagination thought an Agency that protected the Earth's timeline from changing would make a decent story with lots to talk about. She thinks several books will cover the topic, and I agree. We're to the exciting part with kidnappers and rescuers at the almost end of Time School, and she's shouting ideas at me for book two! She came up with a situation about loving someone from one of your past lives, and The Promise rose from our collaboration. I'm in love with three fictional males at once, and hang on every word of their side of the story when my imagination whispers what they're thinking to me. They talk directly to me, too, but my imagination fills in what they leave to her.

She is one of the most powerful and productive resources I own, and I take it as a compliment when someone tells me I have an overactive imagination. If I didn't have her, I'd be so bored!!

Returning to the Grind

This time last Thursday, I was finishing my last few sips of Jungle Juice (a mixture of guava, orange, and passion fruit juice) and pushing one last bite of bobotie into my mouth at Boma--the all-you-care-to-enjoy buffet restaurant at Walt Disney World's Animal Kingdom Lodge. After eating, our group went to the outside overlook and watched zebras, ostrich, and giraffes room around. All week we never had to make our beds, wash our dishes, or worry about calorie counts. I laughed so much my diaphragm muscle ached on day three. After such a wonderful vacation, returning to daily life where the used towels don't magically disappear within hours of your shower, replaced with fresh, fluffy clean ones is a challenge. But, I'm up for it.

I have at least five pages to write today, and a whole chapter to do next week if I want to stay on schedule for finishing book one in my Time School series by Thanksgiving. I want to re-edit and revamp my book about reincarnation by February, and complete book two in my series by June. This all leads to a self publishing debut in July of 2014. Gasp. That's a lot to do, so why does my mouse keep slipping back to the Disney trip planning websites? Or going to Gap or Old Navy because someone in the family needs another pair of jeans? Or Amazon to find those elusive shelf organizers that will make my life so effortless? I wonder, will they write the next two hundred thousand words for me while I eat chocolates and sip wine? Because that would make my life effortless.

There's a commercial out now that's pretty interesting. I saw it over the top of my computer screen the other night, while writing. The people operating the show give someone a marker, and then ask them to write down what they want to be on their wall. One woman says, in a hushed, awe filled voice, "A writer." Oh honey, do you really want to be a writer, or do you want to be a famous, published author at a book signing? 'Cause before you're the latter, you're a w-r-i-t-e-r trapped at your computer for hours a day, shushing people around you while you work so you can concentrate. You are a hermit with a love affair with your laptop and no social life. Unless you hear stories in your head and get antsy when you can't write them down, you do not want to be a writer. The grind would eat you up and spit you out after a few days!

Ahh...the grind and I are familiar partners. I love the satisfaction I get after I reveal something about a character I didn't know myself, and it's because I'm slogging away, grinding out words, that I can do this. I will miss the fun time I had on vacation, but I have to acknowledge that it's called vacation for a reason. Okay, time to stop stalling, chatting, whining, and start creating so I can one day soon be that published author. It's time to return to the grind.