megfowler.com

Someone once told me that the most important thing a writer could possess was a good imagination.

I suggested that coffee might be a more crucial ingredient in my success, but I couldn’t disagree with the premise.

Whatever lens you might see the world through, the ability to create and extrapolate and envision and engage beyond what’s right in front of your eyes is integral for any scribe.

But it’s not just writers that need that skill… no way. Children do. And parents, too. And artists. And scientists. And architects.

And marketing departments.

I have a good imagination.

I can close my eyes and picture things in my head that may or may not be anything I’ve actually experienced. I can create whole scenes complete with sounds and smells. It doesn’t have to be anything fantastical, either. Just something beyond the moment I’m in.

Funny thing, though… I can’t write fiction at all.

Or maybe I could if I worked harder on it, but right now? No way. Either the words get so wonky the moment they leave my fingers that I want to delete them immediately, or any type of scene I imagine never gets past the point of being, well… a scene.

Not a plot. Not a flow of events. Just a picture.

A pretty good picture, mind you, but not the stuff of a novel or screenplay or even a short story.

More of a camera flash.

But I love these scenes that take root in my mind and my chest.

Standing in the middle of a busy square of people overarched by umbrellas and pigeons, complete with the soundtrack of a thousand clicking heels… well, it gives me energy.

Standing by the salt-smelling ocean with the expanse of blue sky and jagged white-tipped waves ready to dive in… well, it makes me calm.

Standing in a snowy field with frozen steam puffing from my lips like pipe smoke, the world pale and crisp on every side… well, it makes me feel like hope is possible.

I can draw up these moments whenever I need a little good in my life.

So I guess it comes in handy.

In fact, lately, I’ve felt like my imagination and the ability to fade into those flashes has become my best defense against the less-pretty reality of the rest of my life.

When things are weighing on me hard or moving too quickly or moving too slowly or just plain hurting, I can close my eyes and step into a mental postcard for a moment.

Only a moment.

But enough of a moment to make all the other million moments bearable.

Escape without abandonment.

Perspective without too great a pause.

I can’t go so far as to write a new story for myself yet — because I’m not good at fiction, remember? — but I can disappear for a second into something that has nothing to do with health or sleep or work or pain or worry or loss.

And wait until the non-fiction of my life is just as pretty.