No Imagination?

Photo by http://discurrere.deviantart.com/

I honestly don’t know how I ever became a writer. I never had much imagination as a kid. I was shy, quiet, and nerdy when I was young. I spent most of my days reading and drawing. We lived out in the country, so I spent a lot of time outside as well.

In the enchanted forest in our back yard.

It was easy to get from my room to the forest. There was a secret passageway in my closet. All I had to do was step inside, close the door, and climb down through the trapdoor in the floor.

I would traverse the long, dark, underground passageway after grabbing the chamber stick from my mom’s vanity table. The candlelight would flicker off the white walls and dance on the brown linoleum under my feet. (Yes, castles can have linoleum floors in their secret passageways.)

The passageway opened into a large antechamber, often guarded by a troll who watched a magic box that showed teams of strange men in uniforms run back and forth across a field. I would sneak past unnoticed to the door that led out to the enchanted forest, and slip silently through. (Actually, it was pretty easy to sneak by the troll–he was usually asleep.)

Once outside, I tread carefully. All sorts of dangerous things in an enchanted forest. Best to stick tight to the trees and move quickly across open spaces.

Drawing by *me* .

Most often I ended up at my favorite tree in the back of the forest. It grew oddly, at about a thirty-degree angle, with the top cut off and a single branch sticking straight up. Because of the angle, I could walk up the trunk.

There was definitely magic surrounding it because the height always changed when I climbed it.  Even though the highest point was only about five feet off the ground when I stood beside it, after several steps I would find myself at a vantage point that allowed me to see our entire kingdom.

And when I needed a horse, a simple blanket thrown across the trunk would transform it. I would straddle the blanket and a mighty steed appeared beneath me, ready to gallop out of the forest and across the vast field that stretched for miles beyond.

At night, stars filled the sky, and the moon filtered through the treetops while my enchanted forest burst with fairy lights (you may call them fireflies, but that is likely because they never showed their true form to you).

At the end of the day, I settled into bed to read. I would gaze jealously at the author’s name on the cover. If only I were more imaginative I could have seen myself writing a book, with a whole made-up world inside. I really don’t know how I became a writer…