Last year, I thought about writing a story where the main character has lost his imagination. I mean, really lost his imagination, because he can’t imagine things anymore. I don’t know what happened to the idea, but it slid between my hands and landed on the ground, waiting for me to pick it up on a day more fertile for writing. I have lots of those ideas just lying around, shamefully.
Now that is SO ironic.
Because I just wonder if I have lost MY imagination as a consequence of the stroke. It is SO hard to write a fiction story. What the HELL happens next? I’ve started a story now, based on an anecdote I’ve heard about my family, and I’ve found the parts that are hardest to write are the places where I have to make stuff up.
I’ve based stories on anecdotes before, filling in the gaps that an anecdote cannot fill to make a more detailed, expansive story. I make up characters, I make up detailed events, all circling the nugget of feeling that the anecdote conveys.
Ugh, it’s hard staring it down and not coming up with anything. I really, seriously do believe I’ve lost my imagination. (Egads, maybe it’s time to write the story about the guy who has lost his imagination–and THEN what, I ask. What does he look like, what does he do in a day, what does he do to resolve it, what challenges does he face? I’m daunted by…all that…imagining).
Meanwhile, it’s raining. It is so welcome to me. I love the sound of water cascading over everything as it falls down from the sky.