When I was very small I had an imaginary playmate with (was I being creative, even then?) the peculiar name of "Mary Lan Too Soo." And, I think all children give toys--trucks, dolls, Teddy bears, whatever--at least a degree of reality as they play.
Now, more than half a century since Mary Lan Too Soo, and the long ago achieving of a "sensible" adulthood, my imaginary people have names like Carrie, Shirley, Henry, Rob, and Catherine. This morning as I was trying to do some intensive studying unrelated to my current novel in progress I realized that a confrontation between Henry and Catherine had suddenly gone emotional. Catherine says, "You are so like Daddy," and, stunned, Henry stares at her while he processes this information, awakening all sorts of new thoughts and realizations. I hear and see their conversation continue until, finally (a page or so later, I suspect) Carrie intrudes with, "Well, I'm glad that's settled. Shall we now discuss the problem at hand?"
And we go back to fraud, murder threat, and female abduction--simple, everyday stuff in my life.
Where does this come from? Do I dare admit how my mind works these days? But!!! Isn't it fun?
Given the acknowledged publication and publicity problems fiction writers face today, it must be fun. But, do we admit to "outsiders" that we enjoy living in an imaginary world just like the child we once were?
Do you admit it, as you come back from your imaginary world and say "Oh, I'm sorry, could you repeat what you just said?" and risk the peculiar stare you, too, may face?
Thank goodness, along with a (very) active imagination, which, I admit, can be a plague at times, I am also possessed (possessed is a good word here) with comfort in being thought of as--ahem--different.
Do you really want to play it safe by writing a book on "Diet hints that work" or "How to fix that plumbing problem yourself?"
No? Hmmm? Do tell me I am not alone.
Radine Trees Nehring at http://www.RadinesBooks.com