Breathing

At any given point in my childhood, you might have found me engaged in one of the following activities:

• Running wild as a mustang across the western hills
• Racing around the cul-de-sac racetrack/jumping course on the back of a mighty steed, who may or may not have resembled a bicycle
• Flailing over couch cushions and pillows in an epic and daring steeplechase course that spanned the entire circuit of my family room, living room, dining room, and kitchen
• A graceful humpback whale breeching and diving in our backyard pool
• The leader of an entire pod of talking whales: humpback, beluga, right, killer, fin—these multitalented creatures inhabited pool, bathtub, and basement alike
• Venturing down a black hole with Big Pink, Little Pink, and Baby Pink into Pink Panther Land, a barren wasteland where evil giants could freeze you with a look, when they weren’t too busy cooking dinner or reading Newsweek
• Frolicking with the 101 Dalmatians, gathering treasures with Ariel, or trying to lure genies into lamps with Aladdin
• Building campfires, scrounging for food, and fighting off wild animals in a desperate bid for front yard survival

My entire childhood was one prolonged episode of fantasy. I spent more time in the elaborate worlds I built than I did in the real one. My sister was a sometimes-reluctant conspirator, but just as often I was by myself, lost in my creations. There’s a home video that shows me standing at the sliding glass door that led to our backyard, maneuvering the Thanksgiving decals that decorated the door. The hunter with his gun is in discussion with the maid who carries the turkey, about to place it on the laden table. Both are dressed in their pilgrim finery. My dad films me for about 5 minutes as I continue the story, oblivious. The video ends with me shrieking in outrage as he laughs—one should really never be interrupted mid-creative process. It’s probably the most accurate snapshot of my childhood out there.  There has never been a time when I haven’t been able to lose myself in another world.

It used to be so easy, easy as breathing. Now I have to think about diction and syntax and rhythm and brevity and theme and any number of other things they teach you in Creative Writing 101. I have to consider the audience, the take-away message of the story. Sometimes I think I just need to get back to that earlier version of myself, who didn’t think but leapt headfirst into worlds unknown.

That earlier me wasn’t afraid of re-writing, either. Sometimes a game ran away with me, the characters taking autonomous control of their lives and dragging the story in a way I never intended. I have this incredibly vivid memory of playing with my herd of horses in the living room. There was a big rug in the middle of the room that often doubled as a remote island where the herd arrived after abandoning their homeland and struggling across desert and wild seas. In this particular version of the game, a rift developed between two factions in the herd, and open war was imminent. I didn’t want my horses to fight, but two of the stallions weren’t cooperating. I remember looking at the horses spread out in front of me on the rug and saying, “Erase that, that never happened,” and jumping back to where we’d been about twenty minutes ago.

Easy as breathing.

This week’s synchroblog topic was Fantasy. You can read the others here:

The Next Long Haul—Word Shepherd : I Don’t Feel Too Old—i write to be rid of things : outer door—m