One of the hardest things for me to do as a writer is to keep my imagination at bay. As I wend through my day, daydreaming during a stoplight, pausing to imagine a fascinating scenario in between assignments at work, or just passing the time in odd moments, my imagination is a dear friend. Indeed, with nary a complaint, my imagination is the one that writes my stories, while I joyfully take all the credit.
But being on intimate terms with my imagination means that things are free and easy between us. If I’m bored, my imagination gladly steps in and keeps me amused. When I’m thinking of Prince Charming, my imagination happily fills in the gaps by providing a dragon, a princess, and a frog with a multisyllabic name. Oh, it sounds all well and good, but this is a difficult relationship for a writer like me.
You see, I badly need my imagination to fill in the gaps when I write. I often don’t know if that subtle glance will lead to something wonderful or will be returned with a crushing rejection. But my imagination knows, and I greedily clap my hands in anticipation of finding out. If I were lying in my bathtub, I would sigh, close my eyes, and let my imagination tell me the story. It is so easy, so rich and vibrant, and so enjoyable.
But when I’m writing, I’m not lying in my tub. I’m sitting at a keyboard and translating to the best of my ability my imagination’s tale into words on a page. And while it’s not hard, it is not the gentle bath either. For one thing, no matter how fast I type, it is slower than simply sitting back and letting my imagination tell me the tale. So I must constantly hold back my imagination, my dear friend who wants to leap ahead and tell me the most wonderful twist on the story I am writing at that exact moment. I can’t skip ahead, I tell my imagination. I need to go slow and make sure that my dear readers don’t miss the wonderful tale that you have blessed me with. But, bless its heart, my imagination doesn’t understand the concept of holding back.
And therein lies the rub: My imagination is such a wonderful story teller that I find myself constantly tempted to simply let the tale live on in my head and not on the page. Why should I write a story for others, when there are countless tales my imagination is just dying to tell me? I could write 30 novels, but how many tales would I have missed out on by telling my imagination to simply wait while I find the right words to describe a scene my imagination had already given me. Call me selfish, but I often abandon my readers for my imagination.
That is my eternal struggle as a writer. When I ponder sitting down to write, my imagination is always the Siren, calling to me to forget the keyboard, tempting me with finished tales when I must have the discipline to pursue unfinished ones. Why, my imagination tells me, must you write for these others, when we can experience the same without the effort, without the frustrating slowness, and without the delay? It is the Siren’s call that I all too often follow.
I have stories to tell. Wonderful tales. New ways of looking at old things. Old ways of looking at traditional things like dragons, fairies, and knights. Oh, I have stories to tell.
I just have to find a way to lash myself to the keyboard, put wax in my ears, and hold that dreadful wonderful most amazing Siren at bay.
