The beginning. My mother read bedtime stories to me. I would close my eyes, feel her voice wrap the words, filling me with fantastical imagery. Stories from Enid Blyton and John Masefield’s The Midnight Folk and The Box of Delights are a few.
These books unlocked my imagination.
I view my world through a “what if” or “how” lens. I stare. Unapologetically. Well, maybe that’s not true. I embarrass myself with my staring. I stare to imagine how to describe something – the hairs on someone’s arms, a woman’s leggings. You see how I can embarrass myself.
Later, I discovered John Wyndham. His book The Chrysalids impacted me in untold ways. Telepathy! The Trouble With Lichen. His stories excited me. Transported me.
Wyndham and Tolkein inspired me. My imagination not a handicap, but a good thing.
I daydream and imagine on a small Gulf Island with Rupert, a Sharpei-Staffordshire cross, Harold the Tuxedo cat, and an assortment of ducks and chickens.