I’m definitely old – not so my imagination which goes out more often and to far stranger places than I do. However as I mention to editors now and again, I decline to be blamed for some of the themes it creates. It lives its life, I live mine, and sometimes all I do is take dictation.
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On imagination – I am sure you’ve had a similar experience. The characters you write often end up taking your pen and writing their own story and journey. What am I then? An author or just intimate observer chronicling their biography. I marvel at the locations they take me to. I swear I didn’t know THAT was in the wood behind their house! They open up to me. They show their deepest joys and their deepest fears. Stuff I hadn’t had a clue about until the moment my ink touched paper. Such things do they share, are so private that I caution them about revealing too much. “Let’s not write about that. At least no until the right time, and with the right person.” I used to think, on writing, that I live my live and also the lives of my characters. That is an illusion I have joyously shattered. Now my stories are driven by the imagination of my characters, and theirs is so much better than mine.
Author
sigh, yup, my imagination leads its own life entirely. And some of what it coems up with is W..E..I..R..D. On the other hand, at least I never run out of things to write. And I never worry about whether I’m writing the characters, or they’re writing me. Just so long as one of us is writing.