I doubt I will keep things in chronological order. I’ll just forget to add things and then get frustrated. So let’s nip THAT in the bud right off.
I do know that a few years ago my mom told me that it didn’t surprise her too much that I became a writer, because when I was three my favorite question was not “why?”, but “what if?”
I hadn’t thought of it in years and years when she mentioned that, and then it all came back. She was usually pretty game, if a little frustrated, to play along back then. “What if everyone walked on their hands?” “We’d all have to have more muscles in our arms.” “What if my eyes were purple?” “Then you’d be an albino and couldn’t go out in the sun.” “What if it never rained anymore?” “A lot of the plants would die, and we’d have nothing to eat and we’d die, too.”
I remember that these answers satisfied me. I knew what needed to change in order for this other world to exist.
Is this normal? Do other writers experience this? Was writing something that was already in my genes at that age? I guess I don’t know. I haven’t encountered similar stories from other writers. I haven’t encountered similar stories from other parents.
I tell you what. I like to think asking “what if?” makes me special. That it made me special from an early age. That that particular question would lead me unerringly toward the world of fiction and all the “what ifs?” my little brain could handle.
But lots of people think they’re special. Lots of people are wrong. I’m not a unique flower in a bed of otherwise identical flowers — those are called weeds.
Of course, being just smart enough to know I’m not special can be its own downfall, too.
So what if being a strange child really did mean I was special? What if I was really led down this literary path by some twist of genetics or fate?
Let’s you and me, just for right now, just between us, let’s pretend that’s how it is. I think it makes the story more interesting, don’t you? Kind of adds a dash of foreshadowing.
