Years ago, my parents woke every weekend morning to a thundering crash. They remained calmly tucked in bed for they knew it was only their short, scrawny, pig-tailed little kid. Me.
The sun rising was my cue to hop out of bed, open my closet, drag out my large bin of Lincoln Logs and Little People figurines and dump them all over the floor. I had a long-going saga which involved two families who lived in a small prairie town. One family was rich and resided in a Fisher-Price house. The other family was poor and lived in a log cabin. The poor family included the father who was currently away at war, a kindly mother, and four sisters. (No, this part wasn’t at all inspired by Little Women. gee-why would you think so?) The shy, yet strong-willed, tomboyish, bookworm youngest daughter (not me- geesh!) was madly in love with one of the sons of the rich family. He reciprocated. Alas, his snobby parents forbade the romance. Oh, the drama! The heartbreak! The passion of desperate lovers secretly meeting and engaging in activities which at that point I’d only seen on TV.
Yes, it was all very torrid. (sniffles)
After a couple hours, I’d abandon my gang to watch the Smurfs while eating Cookie Crisp cereal.
Well, as Stevie Nicks sang, “even children get older”- so one day the Lincoln Logs and Little People were passed on to younger relatives. My stories went from being played out with toys to pen and paper, then to a child typewriter, an adult typewriter, and now, of course, a computer.
As I continue working on my novel, I’m trying to regain the pure joy I had with creating stories when I was a kid. I’m tired of stressing over every word, every comma, every paragraph. I want to have fun again!
Every writer knows they must shut off the inner-editor while writing the story. But knowing, and being able to do so, are two very different things.
Here’s my own plan: for the rest of this draft, I’m going to pretend I am not trying to be published. I’m just writing for fun. No one else will ever see this except family and friends. Surely, with my vibrant imagination- I can pretend this.
So, yeah. There it is. This story is just for me. Just like when I was a kid playing with Lincoln Logs or a teen sprawled on her bed.
It’s time to have fun again.
Come Monday, maybe I’ll pick up some Cookie Crisp. 🙂