Imaginary friends

September 2, 2012

Being a writer obviously means that I think a lot about imaginary people. I always have. When I was tiny, I had Sally and Mr. Goober. They only played on my special blanket, and only at night. Mr. Goober was curly; Sally was straight (I still don’t know what this means; don’t read into it.) I also made up Little Friend, who would play with my sister on long car rides. If my sister was mean to me, I would tell her Little Friend would die unless she gave me a kiss (nice, huh? Such is the nature of siblings.) When my own kids were little, I made up imaginary friends for them (no death threats in this case), and they made some up themselves: Violet, a tiny moose the size of a child’s thumb from Princess Daughter; and Dinkadakadore, a sinister old woman who was also a man with gray skin and orange eyes, invented by Dearest Son, who will someday be the next Stephen King.

Recently, McIrish and the kids and I went to a garden center that featured terrariums. I haven’t had a terrarium since I was in fourth grade, but I was charmed by how dang cute they are. We bought four tiny plants and an iron turtle, and I went home and got to work.

Being a writer generally means one cannot turn off one’s imagination, which is both a blessing and a curse. The turtle instantly assumed a name and a personality. Henry is quite vicious and bites people with his needle-sharp teeth. He runs around my office at night and destroys things. The dog is afraid of him. He is my guard turtle, so I put up with him. Sometimes, he pees on the rug. When two of the terrarium plants died, I told McIrish that Henry ate them. (Note that Henry is not smiling in the photo. It’s beneath him.)

Nice to know the imaginary friends aren’t done with me yet.

 

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.