The more I read, the more I learn and the more I learn, the more I write. There is nothing mundane in magic, but today, I told a guy what I did and he said, “Do u believe in such! Honestly those are more of myths than reality. Come & we move around, you will find out nothing of the sort.” Like writing about elves was for children! If that were the case, I hardly think Professor Tolkien would have done such a thing.
That hurt my feelings (and my eyes). For some reason, that hurt my feelings a lot. It was patronizing, first of all–the assumption that somehow fantasy is written by the delusional. I almost saw my childhood fade before my eyes as I heard my heart breaking.
Then, for some reason, remembered something. I added another verse to one of my poems for The Kingdom of the Woodland Realm Trilogy and for some reason, I could see the gray ships in the harbor of Mithlond and the horizon calling. All was right with the world. I like thinking my closet will take me to Narnia or that the Second Star to the right leads to Neverland. These were grown men that saw possibilities, not delusions. Without imagination, we would never have thoughts at all.
I realized it is very hard to imagine possibilities when you can only see regularities. If a door is just a door, it won’t lead you anywhere. If fantasy is just delusion, then why do we dream at night? Fantasy doesn’t tell us what isn’t possible–it tells us what already is. It never asks why, it says why not.
I am very proud I still have some of my muchness left. I am proud of my muchness. If I didn’t have imagination, I would cease to exist. I wonder if we are not someone’s imagination or someone’s dream. When they wake up, will we go away?–J.