How great would it be if you could get up every morning and start writing fiction? Go out for a swim or run or some other sporty stuff, which you now don't seem to have the time for and then head out to a cafe somewhere to write some more. And when you no longer feel like producing stories, you just dig up a book to see what others have come up with. And all of this perhaps some place where winter is an unknown concept.
When I was little I used to read all these adventure stories: I started with Enid Blyton when I was seven or eight and then progressed to read all the Tarzans and Mars books, Zorros and westerners, James Fenimore Cooper and Jack London and Zane Grey. I loved space movies and westerners and was terribly annoyed when I wasn't allowed to watch some of them in the age of ten. I dreamt of a life of adventure somewhere in the jungle or wild west or the outer space. I had a terribly wild imagination and all manner of imaginary worlds sprung up around me after I found a "magical" stick on a walk once; we were at my grandparents' house and I was eight years old.
They have been there ever since, my magical worlds, but somehow I have banished all the adventure from my real life and relegated it into this magical realm where everything is possible. I suppose the question is how much magic one can bring from that other world into this.
One thing is sure, I never dreamed of being a lawyer when I was little. A lawyer - I think - would have been the first to have been sacrificed by the beasts of Opar or thrown out of the Santa Fe train with his books clattering behind him. A researcher might have been tolerated, but that bespectacled figure with his nose in the books would have at most been an amusing side-kick. But what about being the god behind it all, the one who spins it all and wrecks it all, creates it all with just of few tiny clickety clicks of the fingers....
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti