The fire burned out.
My tea is cold.
Darkness has fallen.
Suddenly, I'm pulled from my story. How could it be so late? I haven't brought in the wood. The vacuuming isn't done. And what about dinner?
I was lost in the story again.
It takes a while for me to get there, but once I disappear into my pretend world of story-making, living there becomes more real than my neglected housework—or the cold tea in my cup. Usually, the shocker is the darkened, cold house. Once again I've let the fire go out. Chores and dinner preparations must be rushed. But for a little while I have lived in such a beautiful, enchanting place. The world of my imaginings.
It's that place I lived in when I was a little girl. It's the warm and homey spot I slipped away to when I was pregnant and dreaming of the family we would someday have. It's the place I escape to in a great book. If you are a writer or an avid reader, you know exactly what I'm talking about. How wonderful to still be able to find that magical imaginative world, where for a little while I can walk in other people's shoes, feel their hurts and pains—and their laughter. As a playwright, I have to think technically about what can and can't work on stage, and sometimes that distracts me, but oh, for those hours I live in the story, it all makes perfect sense.
I love when I'm writing and start laughing. If the actor says it anything like I imagined, the audience will really get a kick out of that one. Sometimes tears come to my eyes, and I wonder if anyone else will “get” that moment.
I love the world of my imaginings. But it's not until I share my writing that others get a glimpse of my thoughtful place...and the journey I have taken to bring this story to life.