Inkflux originated out of a need to document my sometimes writing related thoughts, which isn’t abnormal – but a lot of things about me are. (I’m an aspiring author; we’re automatically weird.) People who aren’t “real” talk to us in our heads. They also talk to each other. And, like, ya know, do things. Right now, one of my characters is having strawberry tea with their legs propped up on a table. Wearing toe socks. Despite this picture of ease, they’re irritated I haven’t told the world everything they’ve been through by now and would prefer me to be writing it down instead of blogging. However, they can wait a few minutes while I regale complete strangers with loosely related anecdotes.
I’ve been a writer since before I could write. I was always imagining things to make reality more interesting. I questioned real world concepts, trying to make things better than they were by making stories up and learning as much as I possibly could. I was and still consider myself a pretty curious kid. A direct example of this violent and insatiable curiosity can be found in the throes of my childhood. The grand era, when 9 o’ clock meant bedtime, not, “Well, crud… I guess should start my homework.”
I wasn’t one of those pillow-throwing, tantrum-having demon children. I didn’t whine in protest about scratchy pajamas or cry thinking about The Boogey Man. — Actually, I lay silent in complete and utter terror of The Boogey Man. My strategy was simple: play dead. (Forgive me for bragging, but it’s been 20 years and he still hasn’t realized I’m faking. What a sucker…) No, my rebellion against bedtime came in a different form: I did as I was told. Brushed my teeth, changed into comfy clothes, and hopped in bed to bury my little legs under a Lion King comforter. I was the perfect child.
Myth! I was just planning my attack.
I’d glance up into my mother’s face, looking deceitfully sleepy, perhaps after she read me a story. “Sweet dreams,” she’d say, rising to leave.
Gripping her sleeve.
“What is it, dear?”
“Um…um…ummmm…how do fish breathe?”
I might even remember asking this question. Or, I think I do. They tell me I asked many more just like it.
“Why is the sky blue?”
“What is fire?”
Every night I asked a new question. And as I got older – you know, training wheels age – I began to collect the facts. Memorize them. Fish can breathe underwater; the sky is blue; fire is hot; once upon a time there was a little girl who could shoot lasers from her eyes and have all the kittens she desired and – wait. What?
Reality wasn’t good enough for me!
Every child starts off learning – and mostly every kid plays make believe. Princesses, castles, dragons, space ships – we all do it. Most kids eventually stop.
I think writers are the ones who don’t. And the good ones show you how to play again.
I aim to be a good one, a writer that shows you there is still magic (and humor) in this cruel, strange and sometimes boring world. Because there is still magic in this place – in other places, too – and with words, you can go anywhere. Inkflux isn’t just a place for me; it’s a place for you, too — a place where us writers, readers, and artists can talk about the things that connect us. An escape. A bridge. A gate.
Madhatters — I’ll see you on the other side.