Imagination

Dear Karen,

I hear you are at the ocean this week, and that you plan to send me some seashells. Nothing would please me more, except being there with you.  When I fist began imagining my writing life I was always by the ocean. I spent my days writing and walking and eating good food. Money be damned, somehow in my fantasy bills and mortgage were paid. Weather be damned too, there were no hurricanes in my fantasy. In fact nothing more than a good rainstorm to watch from the huge picture windows that overlooked the sea.

I am grateful to have such an active imagination. I honed it well in public schools where I spent most of my time staring out the window and imagining anything and everything. Just the other day I asked myself the question, “Why do you write?” (You see, I often have interviews with myself in preparation for my fantasy interview on Fresh Air). My answer this time was that I want to use my gift of imagination for good rather than evil.  This may seem like a flippant answer, but in truth it was quite revelatory to me, and will be my go-to answer for the foreseeable future, should I ever be asked again in real life.

The good is this: when I am writing a novel I am so caught up in the fictional world of my characters that I don’t give a fig’s ass about whether or not my writing life is living up to my fantasy of it. In fact I know that nothing could be better than being steeped in the production of a work that I am loving. So instead of using my imagination for the evil of disappointing myself with my own unrealistic expectations, I use it for good, storytelling, and allowing myself to be used by a character to tell his or her story, allowing myself to be possessed. When I am possessed this way I can skirt the clogged plumbing, the burnt dinners, the traffic jams, and the general dailiness of life so much more easily than if I am not writing. Plus I am nicer.

So here’s to the next novel, the next story, the next great adventure. And here’s to the insane ups and downs of the writing life. I was depressed when I wrote you last, but now I am eager and happy.  As Persimmon Wilson goes to press I am not looking at the future so much as I am looking at the past, at the years I spent listening to his story, untangling his history, dropping deep into the 1800s. Whatever happens with the book – sales, reviews, etc. etc. – nothing can take that sweetness away from me. I learned so much while writing this book, and I grew as a person and as a writer.

I believe that a writer does not choose a story so much as a story or character chooses a writer. I feel so honored to have been the author this character chose. So deeply honored. It makes me cry to think of it.

I have no idea what the next story will be. It hasn’t landed on me yet. The characters haven’t found me. I haven’t found them. But I am open to them, and I feel something coming. I feel an energy gathering over my left shoulder, and then my right shoulder, then above my head, and over my shoulder again. Something’s coming. I am sure that the story gods have not forgotten me.

Love from your partner in imagination,

Nancy