I love to write. That’s obvious, true. But I’m not just talking about writing. Having an explosive imagination can be magnificent in other ways. My most favorite? New friends.
I never felt quite right in higher-level English Lit. People were so brilliant: bespectacled philosophers of all ages were plentiful and had deeper understanding of the coursework than I. I didn’t know to laugh at their jokes and dreaded getting into a conversation. Peer review was a nightmare for me. It made me want to run like my arse was on fire to the nearest ESOL class, five minutes prior having believed I’d written an A+ report. I was intimidated by my classmates.
But NOW. I love those people now. It has much to do with being older and feeling more comfortable in my own skin. Not being afraid to ask questions or sound like a doofus. Artists are scrumptious sources of inspiration and entertainment. Talking with one is like jumping into a short story. The smarter the better.
Spooky Empire’s Screamfest (look it up—it’s NOT Halloween Horror Nights) was this past weekend. I can’t begin to describe the gloriousness of its patrons. Fully dedicated, head-to-toe costumed horror lovers, there simply to pay respect to it’s family and seek out new talent.
My fellow exhibitors were equally wonderful. There were a few prima-donnas (the caricaturist with an encyclopedia of dirty looks for anyone disturbing his creative space, the comic-hound insanely protective of his display), but mostly they were awesome.
What having an explosive imagination does is bump you into needing to express it. When gumption eventually manifests—or when the right people fall out of the sky and into your life—you take a chance promoting it. Enter the vortex of characters: fascinating entrepreneurs rolling up sleeves, creating new hallways for the zeitgeist honeycomb. I adore them.
One day I’ll quit work and write full time. I don’t need to balance creativity with a blazer and high heels. I’m good walking at an angle.