Remember when the world was new? When the presents that appeared under the tree each Christmas was a miracle? When colored eggs may very well have been left to gleam in the grass by a large rabbit with a basket? When the bushes in the back yard concealed tigers, and the closet at night contained monsters.
And who knew what magic conjured the fireworks that decorated the very sky with fiery plumage and glowing floral bursts.
Childhood is about wonder, and living in the world of the possible. A state that transcends hope itself.
It's something we lose as the world delivers lesson after lesson on limitations and impossibilities. Important lessons, but ones we tend to take as all encompassing and axiomatic, the things we use to build the foundations of adulthood without questioning if maybe we should mix our mortar with a little of the gemdust of yore.
To me, thats part of what writing is. Dipping my proverbial pen in the gemdust and conjuring the possible. Even in my horror stories, for monsters did indeed lurk in my closets and they demand their due. But it's something that can infuse almost any type of story. Like childhood, writing is about the possible . . . and I just have to hope that I can be good enough to include a little wonder in there from time to time.
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