I love to pretend. (That could be why I like acting some much, it’s an acceptable way  for adults to play make believe.) For as long as I can remember I’ve loved making my own worlds, my wonderlands.

I’ve always been somewhat of a loner. One of those who can be surrounded but always alone. In high school I was friends with people in just about every different group there was. I did have my close group of friends but there where times even they tended to leave me out. So, I made my own friends and realities.

One of my favorite was to pass the time was to make up story lines for my favorite T.V. shows, something I still like to do to occupy my mind. I would often be surprised when one that I had thought of became a reality down the line. Of course they were never exactly the same but often close enough that it was kind of cool but also a like freaky.

As I grow up I miss playing pretend. L, my oldest has an amazing imagination and often pretends to be someone else, usually a princess. The thing is I never really seem to fit into her realities, to find that childlike wonder that it takes to create those possibilities.

I find that I have the same problem with writing, in a sense. I make up these stories in my head. I write whole chapters and then I go to put it on paper. It always seems to fall flat. Somewhere between my head and my hands something gets lost in translation.