As I was saying, once upon a time I had an imagination. I used to make up all sorts of stories in my
head and later I would eagerly write my “story” on paper. Today I can formulate a brief timeline to a
story but I rarely get it on paper because somehow I got myself pigeonholed
into thinking I should write non-fiction.
How presumptuous. My niche, I
think, is still in the world of fiction as I look at the passenger across the
seat from me and create a hidden life for this innocent soul who has just
become a drug addicted psychopath in my mind simply because she has dark
circles under her eyes and a tattoo behind her ear.
Every Christmas the family enters their private writing contest in
the hopes of creating entertainment after the gifts are opened and the dessert
is yet a dream away. I have yet to win
the contest of ‘best entry’ and I go to bed admiring a niece, nephew or brother
who has made us all life or cry. Every
year I try a new twist but somehow the family seems to know me too well, they
seem to guess almost as soon as I begin the tale. Darn, how predictable. This year I will foil them all, I say each
year.
Once upon a time I had an imagination . . . I guess it really hasn’t
gone away at all.
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