If no one else can see it, read it, or hear it, is it even real?
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Whenever I’m feeling trapped or lost, my best plan of action is to look to the source of everything I fear and love.
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My imagination is limitless, but it remains incapable of predicting the future.
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As a writer, I establish a story’s reality at the outset as a kind of agreement with my reader.
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I simply misunderstood the true source of what we call reality.
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To write, I have to forget about everything but my imagination.
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Writing is an act of trust, not chopping wood.
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Perhaps someday I’ll learn to truly count this drifting as working, to see my daydreams as an extension of my time at the desk – but I doubt it. I still like to believe there is such a thing as time off from work.
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For a short time in my early twenties I thought I might want to be an actor. I was performing in a show I’d written with my brother, and I became increasingly interested in how you find and then stay in character. Even though it was a sketch comedy show and my characters were mostly clownish versions of myself, there was still a difference between what I inhabited on stage and what I inhabited offstage. I wanted the character to be as real as I was; I didn’t want the audience to ever see me “acting.”
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