Lacey Louwagie's Blog, page 25

The Catholic Church and (Il)Literacy

My latest post is up on Young Adult Catholics, examining the somewhat complicated relationship between Catholicism and literacy. I largely owe the fact that I can read to the work of Catholics and feminists from days past (Catholics for setting up the first universities in Europe, where my ancestors came from, and feminists for fighting for women to have access to education.) Now that Catholics can read, it’s time for the hierarchy to stop treating us as it did in the days what we were illiterate.

Rapunzel and Research

Last week after I finished a scene on my Rapunzel novel, I was struck with the conviction: I have to research now.

My initial plan with Rapunzel was to do as much research as possible before NaNoWriMo began last November. I was able to do some research, but not as much as I wanted, because I was also trying to finish another draft of Rumpled. Then in November, of course, there was no time for even the most basic research–writing was pretty much my only option if I wanted to finish. That was okay, though–I could research between drafts. Except somehow, March and NaNoEdMo were upon me as if December, January, and February had never happened. So I was putting in over 10 hours a week editing Rapunzel without the time to do the research I’d wanted to do then, either, although I did stop here and there to do a spot of research as needed, mainly into European growing seasons and other garden-related trivia.

I’ve never written something that requires massive research, such as historical fiction novel or novel that incorporates real people as characters. Even though what I write is primarily speculative fiction, I’ve still managed to keep a lot of the human experiences close enough to home that I could get away with not researching except as needed for certain scenes (scenes in one of my past novels that involved curing pork and assembling guns come to mind.)

I don’t think Rapunzel necessarily needs more than this level of research. Although it takes place in a vaguely medieval European world, the actual kingdoms are imaginary, and no specific dates are mentioned, nor any real historical events. Still, there’s something that’s telling me to stop and go deeper at this point, and I’m going to listen to my gut. This story has taken hold of me in a way that nothing has for years, so I’m going to let it continue to lead the way and see what happens.

My research primarily takes two paths. The first investigates the “Maiden in the Tower” motif to which Rapunzel belongs, more deeply exploring the pervasiveness and commonalities of these stories (to that end, I’ve recently ordered a book by the same name both through Interlibrary Loan and Amazon.com). The second one centers on medieval witchcraft trials. I was surprised that I needed to go beyond my local library to find good information on the latter, as I live within the largest library system in South Dakota. Still, it seems most of the witchcraft resources that exist focus on the Salem Witch Trials. I find this an interesting turn, since those witch trials were the descendants of their European predecessors; far fewer witches were tried in Salem than in medieval Europe, and yet somehow those are the trials that loom largest in the public imagination. Is it just the ethnocentrism of living in the U.S. that makes other witchcraft history hard to get hold of?

And then, somewhat unintentionally, I’ve also begun some hands-on research. Last week, it finally stopped raining long enough for me to plant a garden. A witch’s garden figures prominently into nearly all versions of Rapunzel, so of course it’s a central setting for my novel as well, comprising one of the few places outside the tower that Rapunzel has ever experienced. I’ve never been much of a gardening enthusiast myself, but I am an enthusiast of fresh, cheap produce, so for me the garden is just a means to that end. I had a garden a couple years ago that I woefully neglected that produced vegetables in spite of that, and I was halfway expecting this garden to take the same route. And yet, already I’m feeling a greater sense of investment in this garden. Is it because it’s dependent only upon me, when I had my sister and my dad sharing responsibility for my former garden? Is it because I planted every single seed myself? Or am I perhaps channeling a bit of “Mama” (Mother Gothel in the original), who loves her garden with the same fierceness with which she loves Rapunzel? In one scene, Mama justifies taking Rapunzel because of the way her biological father treated plants:

“Your father was cruel, Rapunzel,” Mama said once, throwing aside weeds she had just pulled. “He didn’t even bring anything for clipping the rampion. He just ripped it out of the ground, roots and all. And when I confronted him, his arms full to bursting, he became whiter than a slug’s belly. He blamed his wife, and her desperate cravings. And I thought, if this man cannot be gentle with these living creatures–” Mama spread her hand to indicate all that bloomed around her–“then how could he be fit to care for a tiny babe?”

I was surprised to feel that same sort of protectiveness as I dropped tiny seeds onto the ground, then gently covered them with dirt. Here’s hoping I have a little bit of Mama’s talent with coaxing abundant and nourishing food out of them as well–although I could do without the fanaticism.

My Thoughts Exactly

“Writing is a lot of work, and it’s in the main thankless work, except for the pleasure of doing it itself. One really has to want to do it (and not only want to have done it): one has to be interested in sitting in a chair for hours every day, alone, with nothing to fall back on but one’s own thoughts, and find the idea of turning words around—around and around—until they seem just right, just the right words in just the right order—the best possible use of one’s time.”

- From Susan K. Perry’s interview with Michelle Herman

Free Writing Ebook from Scribendi

Since early 2009, Scribendi, an online editorial services company, has been one of my most steady freelance clients. The experience of working for them has only improved over the years, as they’ve raised wages and begun offering other juicy incentives for helping out during especially busy times or receiving positive feedback on an order. But perhaps one of the things that has impresses me most about Scribendi is their dedication to improving their clients’ writing. This isn’t an organization that wants to keep clients dependent on their services; it’s one that believes it can be most valuable by guiding clients to become stronger writers on their own … even if that means they might eventually outgrow Scribendi’s services.

Along those lines, Scribendi is currently putting together a series of writing ebooks. Their first one, Effective Business Communication, has just been released. Most of us have probably had days at work where we hit “send” too soon on an email or CC’d the wrong person, causing embarrassment at best or downright humiliation or harsh reprimands at worse. We’ve had days where we’ve stared at a blank screen, inert at the thought of beginning that big report or grant proposal or marketing plan (I’ve had tasks stay on my to-do list for weeks, not because of lack of time, but because of how daunting the blank screen is.) Since most professions require written communication of some sort, this book can be helpful to anyone who has a job or is looking for one. And for a few days, you can download it for free. Enjoy!

Writing: My Difficult Task Done Well

When I was taking the Know Thyself course through Coursera earlier this spring, one thing that stuck with me was the finding that lottery winners are not happier than the general population. I had heard this before, of course, and, as someone who doesn’t find a lot of happiness in money or in stuff, it always made sense to me. But Timothy Wilson, one of the researchers who has studied the phenomenon, suggested that one of the causes of stagnating or even declining happiness in lottery winners was the fact that many of them quit work.

He reflects that, although many people don’t take much note of it, much of our happiness comes from the feeling of satisfaction we get for “a difficult job done well,” something that most people encounter in their work lives at one time or another. Removing work therefore removes that particular, possibly significant, source of satisfaction.

My first thought was, “But I could get that from my writing!” (So yes, I think that I could be quite happy as a lottery winner. ).

In the past year, I’ve really reframed the way I think about writing so that I don’t see its purpose as being a means toward achieving my dream of publishing a book, but so that I take value from the journey itself — the satisfaction I get from untangling a thorny plot issue, creating a beautiful sentence, or understanding my own experiences more deeply when I journal. Writing has essentially become a spiritual practice, something that threads a layer of meaning throughout my whole life, regardless of whether it brings outward success or not. And I certainly get the satisfaction of “a difficult job done well” when I manage to do it (and the satisfaction of at least trying when a difficult job is not done well). On most days, writing is the hardest thing I do, which is why I try to do it before 10 am — after that, the rest of the day feels easy.

I don’t think I need paid work to have a sense of satisfaction with my life, although the external validation of being recognized for it is a perk. Still, I think my own interests and compulsion to work on them without pay would be enough to keep me feeling productive and satisfied while a windfall took care of the details like food and housing. As it stands, my marriage has given me the chance to relax a bit about finances — my husband and I live simply, but I’m able to do things now that were very difficult for me to swing financially when I was single, such as home improvement, more upgraded technology, and travel. I’m grateful for that. But at the bottom of it all, we live below our means because what we both want most of all is time. We want time to devote to our personal “difficult tasks” done well — writing and learning for me, and coding for him. All money is to us is the means to take care of the necessities of life so that we can put as much time and energy as possible into the things we’re truly passionate about.

Although I’m more financially secure now than I have been in the past, I’m also more passionate about finding ways to “do more with less,” with the hope that someday that will allow us to be less beholden to our paid work. We’ve discussed that if we somehow came into a large sum of money, we’d put it away and give ourselves a yearly allowance and use the opportunity to work full-time toward our creative goals. We think we could live on 1 million dollars for twenty years — and perhaps after all that time devoted to our passions, they would have finally started reaping some financial rewards! Until then, we keep our day jobs, dependent on them for the cost of living, while we reap the majority of our satisfaction from our jobs that offer that very satisfaction as their only reward.

Writer Biography Book Review: Lives Like Loaded Guns

Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family’s Feuds by Lyndall Gordon

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

It’s always hardest for me to review books I loved. But this is one of the best books I’ve read in a while, and I was blown away by how enthralling it was when I’d expected something a bit dry and academic. Lyndall Gordon’s exquisite research allows her to vividly depict all the characters who populate Emily Dickinson’s life, making them so real that I felt compelled to return again and again.

Lyndall Gordon’s most significant contribution is probably the new light she casts on Emily Dickinson in this work, painting her not as the typically “shy”, demure recluse, but as a strong woman in touch with herself and what she wanted, able to stand up against her family’s manipulations, and even pull a lot of the strings herself behind the scenes. Lyndall posits a medical reason for Emily’s reclusiveness, and she makes a strong case for it — although it seems likely that a condition that may have begun as medical could have certainly developed a psychological component over time.

Because Gordon characterized the early lives of Emily’s families and friends so well, the tension that creeps into the family when Austin begins his affair with Mable Todd is heartbreaking. The betrayal made me ill. And although Gordon seems to make an honest attempt at an even-handed telling, she comes across as more sympathetic to Susan’s side of the divide — as was I. I listened to this book on audio, so when I was done I got the hardcover from the library so I could see the photos. And I stared at the one of Mable Todd for a long time — she really was stunning.

The last 1/4 of the book or so, which chronicles the battle for Emily Dickinson’s legacy, was less interesting to me. But the ending still left me feeling incredibly satisfied, so I can give no fewer than five stars to this biography. It even has me investigating the possibility of a trip to Amherst!

View all my reviews

A Year in the Life, Week Five: Spring

Today’s exercise in A Year in the Life was to write about the current season. I waffled over whether May 31 should be considered spring or summer, and I went with spring. This was one of those exercises that had me writing until my hand got sore, which is what’s interesting about writing from this book. Some of the exercises are done in ten minutes, and I don’t feel particularly moved by them. Others have me going until I’m surprised at how dark it’s getting, or, if I’m writing outside, how sunburned I’m going to be. But, without further ado, spring.

It is the last day of May, and there are raindrops sliding down the window. My dog tramps in too much mud; new bikes in the garage wait for summer’s light, cool evenings. The warm-weather sheets are on the bed, and I’m compelled to wash them more often than I have in the past. The sweaters are packed away and I wear capris daily.

The Garden (or lack thereof)

Not my tomatoes, unfortunately.

A combination of late freezes, rain, and Saturdays spent working have kept us from planting the garden. The backyard looks like a jungle as we let the grass grow higher and higher, hoping it will seed its “bald spot.” The front lawn is full of weeds, naked dandelions, garbage on the curb. We haven’t mowed the front lawn, either, but there’s no good reason for that. I feel chastised when I see neighbors mowing their lawns, or even the orderliness of every yard but ours. My dog comes in with vegetation dangling from his belly from the high grass.

I would rather write about the witch’s garden in Rapunzel than plant my own. I was lazy with my first garden, three years ago, letting my dad take the lead while I hid in my office chatting with my boyfriend on Skype. I later married him, so it might have been a worthwhile investment, but I still feel guilty about my lack of “presence” that spring. I hardly watered the garden at all, trusting that the plants’ survival instincts would produce even without my help. Still, I was stunned to come home from a vacation in August to find cucumbers everywhere.

I like vegetables, being outside, the idea of eating off my own land. I’m the type of person who should like gardening, but I just don’t. I have a free weekend coming and this might be just the time, but I’m hesitant to bring it up to my husband, afraid of relegating another weekend to the endless “to do” list.

The Lawn

One of the first things I did when I moved into my new home last year was mow the lawn. I listened to Dr. Amen’s Sex on the Brain because I was newly married and newly “de-virginitized,” and sex was very much on my brain. I remember Ivan coming home from work earlier than I expected him to, standing on the deck. It was the day before we left for our honeymoon.

By this time last year, we’d mowed the lawn several times already–but the drought meant we stopped mowing shortly thereafter.

Before that, I traded off on lawn-mowing duty with my sister Krystl at our house in the country. I remember the rumble of the mower beneath my thighs, and all the audiobooks: Black Hills by Nora Roberts, 13 Reasons Why by Jay Asher, The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak, and Xenocide by Orson Scott Card. Last spring it was podcasts from The Ultimate Men’s Summit and The Dragon Reborn by Robert Jordan, and now I trade lawn-mowing duties with my husband instead of my sister. As a teenager, I mowed all around the farm for $5, listening to Into the Woods and Jesus Christ Superstar, dreaming up Gargoyles fan-fiction.

The Laundry

Spring makes me want cleaner sheets, so I wash them now more than I ever have before. I like that it’s easier to travel light, and feel my spring and summer clothes have more personality than my winter ones.

I miss having a clothesline, although when I had one I was notorious for leaving clothes in the rain, then leaving them longer so they could dry again. There was something so relaxing about pinning all those clothes up, something calming about the way they billowed in the breeze. The wind and sun don’t take the cat hair off as well as the dryer, but a lint roller will still do the trick.

I hung clothes on the line as early as I possibly could, then kept doing it as late as possible into the fall. I remember hanging laundry many times with my fingers going numb from the cold.

 

Marriage

I got married in the spring of 2012, a spring that was so hot we had 80-degree weather in March. The day of my wedding dawned rainy and stayed windy and cold, a throwback to springs of years past but out of character for that particular spring. Hail hit the roof of the church while we said our vows. Sunny skies and 80-degree weather returned the very next day.

Two years before, four months after I met Ivan, I told him I loved him for the first time. We were in the car, driving back to Sioux Falls after spending Easter with his family in Rapid City. He beamed and said, “Really?” and then, “That’s good because I’ve loved you for a long time.”

I always wondered what that meant because we hadn’t even known each other a long time. But I never asked.

A couple weeks later, we had our first real fight, which I still don’t like to think about, but it allowed for some much-needed clearing of the air. It was also what got us to say, out loud, that we’d both thought of making this thing permanent. Still, the months that followed were the hardest in our whole relationship, as the newness of infatuation was wearing thin, but the security of trust hadn’t yet settled in.

A few months ago, Ivan and I watched our wedding DVD, and I was absolutely blown away by how happy and in love we looked. But I still feel that, all things considered, I’m happier still today, to have my books and my pets and the man I love all in the same place. On our one-year anniversary, I cried when Ivan told me it had been the best year of his life. I think we’re both better suited to marriage than dating.

Home

I’ve moved in every season, twice in spring. The first was from the two-bedroom apartment I shared with Katrina to the studio I would live in alone; the second to my house with Ivan. I think the former was the bigger transition.

The spring before we were married, Ivan and I delighted in exploring every cheap, foreclosed house we could get into. One real estate agent used the same combination for all his houses, so every time we saw his name on a for-sale sign, we’d pull over and explore. One house had the electricity turned off, so we wandered around inside it on a rainy night, investigating it by flashlight. Another was big, old, beautiful, and cheap, but had extensive flood damage and would have been a beast to heat. One home had, “I see dead people” scrawled onto the wall leading down to the basement. Another had a litter of kittens in the bathtub. And then there was the big Victorian house that we both fell in love with, even though it was out of our price range–when we got back to Ivan’s apartment, we looked it up and found that it had just sold–probably for the best, but we still talk about it.

We went on house-hunting adventures every weekend, and Ivan sent me photos of the houses he looked at during the week. Ivan was relieved that I liked small houses–but I told him we needed room for at least one accidental pregnancy. I remember knowing I’d be sad when the hunt was over.

The house Ivan bought was one he toured without me during the week. When he showed it to me, I knew he loved it because he almost held his breath while he waited for my reaction. I didn’t have much reaction at all, good or bad. Ivan said he had a good “gut feeling” about the house, which was good enough for me. I figured one of the perks of being married was that you got access to the wisdom of two “guts” instead of just one.

Its smallness hasn’t been as much of an issue as I’d feared–a lot of books can fit on just one bookshelf! My friend Ashley, upon seeing it for the first time, said, “It’s small, but it’s not lacking.” I love that its size prevents us from accumulating too much stuff. And I think it may be true that “love grows best in little houses.”

Don’t let its size fool you — there are a lot of books and love in that house!

Marriage Equality, “Morality” Laws, and the Convenient Minority

My latest post is up on Young Adult Catholics, in which I ponder why Christians still think they have the right to legislate around the rights of people with same-sex attractions, despite the fact that they respect separation of Church and state when it comes to other issues of “sexual morality.” Check it out!

Why I’m Taking a Break from Superhero Movies

I briefly mentioned the not-so-great Star Trek: Into Darkness last week. Shortly after, I came across this article in which writer Damon Lindelof apologizes for the gratuitous scene of Alice Eve in her underwear. Then, in his defense, he mentions that Kirk was shown in his underwear in both movies.

The fact that Lindelof follows up his apology with a moment of defensiveness almost negates it for me. Yes, sexualization of both women and men is a problem. But we’re not exactly comparing apples to apples in a culture where women are much more likely to be seen as mere sexual objects — props, if you will — than men. And this is especially true in the Superhero genre. The shots of Kirk in his underwear were used to advance his “character arc” (dubious as that might have been) as a “playboy,” a more explicit rendition of something that has galled female fans of Star Trek for generations. With that said, they don’t fall under the definition of “gratuitous” (i.e.: doing nothing to advance the plot) because of that. In both Kirk’s “underwear shots,” he was in bed with women — which also provides ample “reason” for his state of undress. In the Alice Eve shot, she was simply changing her clothes — something that she could have done offscreen without anything being lost.  A shot of a woman changing clothes does nothing to advance her character arc, unless as she does so she discovers her midriff becoming covered with scales. This was merely a “reboot” of the gratuitous scene in the first Star Trek movie, wherein Kirk hides under the bed while we watch Uhura change her clothes, giving us that film’s gratuitous shot of partial female nudity. Also, let’s not forget that the sexualization of male images, which usually includes bulging muscles and toned waistlines, implies strength and physical prowess, whereas the sexualization of the female form implies lack of nourishment, which may be one reason these women often find themselves weakened enough to become damsels.

While I appreciate Lindelof’s apology and certainly hope he will follow through on his promise to “be more mindful in the future,” the article left me more angry than placated. I grew up on Batman: The Animated Series, X-Men, and Gargoyles. I like the escapism of the superhero genre. But I no longer find myself wanting to “escape” to a place where women are portrayed as objects — I can get plenty of that in real life. The truth is, I am tired of “just ignoring” the rampant sexism in superhero movies in my attempts to enjoy a fast-paced story with sci-fi elements. (I know that Star Trek doesn’t technically fall into the “Superhero” category, but I think we can all agree that this frat boy, rebooted series is very much in line with emo Spiderman and Young X-Men).

How do I get myself into these situations?

I’m tired of the way the tension was ruined for me in Spiderman 2 by the sexualized shot of Mary Jane in chains with all its allusions to bondage and sexual victimization. I’m tired of Bruce Wayne taking women to bed but refusing to be straight with them about who he really is (and I’m also tired of him only sleeping with women who have no personality or canned personalities). I’m tired of the general consensus that Tony Stark’s womanizing behavior is “amusing.” (And if I were Pepper, I would dump his sorry ass faster than he could say, “I’ll be home late tonight!”) I’m tired of seeing the smart, competent Moira McTaggert, Charles Xavier’s worthy love interest, disguised as a stripper. In short, I’m tired of women appearing in these movies as though they are one more nifty accessory, like a Batman’s “batarangs” or Green Lantern’s Power Ring, just another perk of being a superhero.

Boys and men can flock to these movies for the rush it gives them to identify with the hero as he goes from “nobody” to “savior of the world” in two hours. Women, like me, are left with fewer choices: identify with the woman, who is portrayed ambiguously at best; identify with the superhero character who interacts with women as though they are props to be alternately saved, kissed, or deceived; or just try to push it all away and enjoy the cool special effects.

On second thought, don’t bother coming back when you get this “superhero” thing out of your system.

I tend to go with option 3.

But reading the somewhat disingenuous “apology” from Lindelof brought all my resentment about these portrayals bubbling back to the surface. And I realize I am really, really sick of it — really sick of having to compartmentalize myself into either the person who likes a good superhero flick, or the feminist who can’t help critiquing the portrayal of women in said flicks. The truth is, in a culture where one in four women is sexually assaulted by the time she reaches adulthood, reducing women to the role of objects does matter.

So, I think I’m taking a break. I’m going to refrain from supporting Superhero movies with my hard-earned money for a while. Or if I do go, I’m going to go ahead and let myself be angry, let myself point it out and vent about it in the parking lot. This will doubtless annoy people who think I’ve “ruined” the movie. But disregard for their female characters has ruined these movies for decades. We deserve superheroes, too, and the crop of busty, scantily clad sheroes and sidekicks just doesn’t cut it.

Imagination as Escapism; Imagination as Exploration

I’ve always had an active imagination; I was the kid who could be left alone in my room for hours, totally immersed in whatever story I had concocted for my My Little Ponies. But when I went through some trauma in middle school, imagination filled a new role for me. Essentially, it allowed me to cope with a world that didn’t meet many of my needs, in which I didn’t feel like a whole person. There was something so complete and gratifying in the places I went in my imagination that I spent almost all my time there.

Life got better in high school and college, but by that time, the habit was firmly entrenched. I lived so many years with only one foot in the real world, the other always in an imaginary one. On a deep level, I was afraid to fully live my own life, because I thought that would weaken my connection to my imaginative one. I read The Picture of Dorian Gray around that time, and there’s a scene in which Dorian is turned off by his love interest, Sybil, because she no longer acts with such passion in the plays he watches. She confesses that, after she’s felt real love with him, play-acting at love is empty and meaningless. I never wanted my imagination to feel empty or meaningless, to feel any less real. So I guarded it viciously, and pushed away many experiences that might have pulled me away from it. In particular, I was reluctant about falling in love, afraid that the reality could never live up to the million ways I’d imagined and experienced it in my mind. How could I ever commit myself to just one lover, who got only me, when in my mind I got to experience it again and again from a hundred different perspectives? All, of course, while remaining perfectly safe.

My world was shattered again in 2006, and I realized then that something had to change. Living in my mind just wasn’t going to cut it anymore. It took me about a year to find a place of balance, where I could keep my feet firmly planted in my own life and still indulge the journeys of my mind. But then the big one came in 2010: I started a relationship with the man I would marry, and it was so scary and so wonderful and so exhilarating that I knew this was for real. I felt myself standing on that precipice, when you know your whole life is about to change.

During that time, what I’d feared about the tension between reality and imagination proved true–for a while. I was in love, I was obsessed, and it was hard for me to write about anything except him and what I was feeling. It was hard for me to immerse myself in writing fiction, to get lost in dreams that weren’t about us. My real life demanded more from me, and there was less for me to give my imagination; or, my imagination was co-opted by my real life and what I might make of it.

Now that I’ve been married for a little over a year, things are starting to settle. I remember that when I once expressed my fears about real life “ruining” my creative life, a friend of mine disagreed. She told me that real life could make your creative life even better by enriching your experiences. I wasn’t sure I believed her then, but I do now.

I love my real life most days, but my mind is still hungry to explore. And it wants to explore in much bigger ways than it did before. When I was younger, so much of my mind was filled with imagining things I’d never experienced–falling in love, kissing someone, having sex, seeing another country, seeing the ocean. Having experienced all those things hasn’t somehow made my imagination obsolete; it’s pushed it toward bigger questions, bigger explorations. I want to cram it full of history, theology, culture, and literature. I’ve always been curious, but feeling like I’ve got my own life figured out (for now!) has ignited that curiosity in a new way. A few nights ago, I went to see the new Star Trek movie with my husband and some of his friends. Although I was a fan of Star Trek when I was a teenager, it was because I was interested in the character relationships (and, admittedly, because so many Star Trek voices were featured on Gargoyles). This newest movie wasn’t great; it might have even veered toward downright bad. But it held my interest because I was fascinated by the idea of what it might feel like to be in space, that I was hungry for that vicarious exploration that I have neither the courage nor the means to ever explore in real life. The ocean captivates me in a similar way. So does God. These vast expanses that are so full of mystery that no amount of “real life” can ever close the case on them–at least, not my real life.

And I’ve learned that having real experiences doesn’t close of your imagination; it does feed it, just as my friend suspected. Experiences and learning and creating are addictive. They ignite the need for more experiences, more learning, more creativity, all the time.

Lately, I’ve started thinking about imaginative exploration in terms of attachment. Attachment theory shows that when an infant has a strong attachment to a caregiver, she is actually more capable of leaving that caregiver and exploring the world. What if this applies to flights of fancy as well as to meeting new people or applying for that job? Perhaps it’s because I feel so securely attached to my real life now, because I know that it’s here an it’s safe for me to come back to, that my mind can go further than it’s ever been able to go before.