When I
was 11 or 12, I used to tell myself stories every night before I fell asleep. I
read a lot of Victorian novels at the time, which were filled with consumptive
heroines and handsome lovers who would do anything to save their dying love. So
most of my stories were about me, laid low with some terrible illness and my
current crush coming to cry over my bed-ridden, wasting form.
Or
sometimes I had saved my love’s life. The villain had unexpectedly pulled a
pistol from his jacket and fired at my hero. I had seen his movement and thrown
myself across the room to protect the man of my dreams, taking the bullet meant
for him in my loving heart. As I bled out on the floor of the ballroom/pirate
ship/country estate, the handsome heartthrob would hold me in his arms,
sobbing, “Oh, if only I were dying in your place.” I would weakly smile up at
him and whisper, “I can die happy, knowing that you live.” Then I would expire,
in the most graceful and lovely way possible. And then, the story
satisfactorily completed, I would fall asleep.
As a
preteen and really into my early teens, I had a very strong imaginative life.
In some ways the stories I imagined seemed almost more real than real life.
Because in comparison real life, let’s face it, was pretty boring.
My stories
not only put me to sleep at night, I also had similarly imaginative friends,
and we would create epic stories together, sometimes taking whole Saturday
afternoons.
We
would gather in Stephie’s back yard,
just up the street from my house on Idylwood Drive. There would be maybe three
or four of us, sitting on the grass, and someone would say “Let’s say we are
pirates!” Someone else would add, “Some are pirates and some are lords and
ladies sailing to Spain.” And someone else would continue, “Let’s say that the
pirates attack!” Then we would just start acting it out and see what would
happen. It was improv and story and play. There would be villains and heroes
and danger and love. Who knew what would happen? The hero and heroine would be brave and clever.
The villains would be dastardly. We would be so deep into our story that when
the street lights came on and we had to go home to supper it was like being
wrenched out of another world.
One
memorable summer, the boy across the street had seen Marlon Brando’s Mutiny on the Bounty. He was consumed
with the story, and wrote out a full script in long hand before casting all the
neighborhood kids in the roles. I can’t remember my part—probably native woman
with no lines. But lines were learned, costumes were cobbled together, and, in
the gala performance for our parents, quantities of ketchup was served up as
bloody wounds.
Sometimes
the stories were played by just my friend, Jill, and me, at a sleepover
perhaps, when our basement rec room would be transformed in our minds to a
castle where one of us was held captive and another would be rescuing. I would
pace the room from the ironing board to the TV, crying out, “But, Lord Horatio,
how can you ask that of me, knowing how I hate you! You have dishonored my
family and caused my father’s despair and death. How can you now speak of
love?” My girlfriend, Jill, would agreeably take the role of the dastardly
Horatio, threatening and glowering. Another time, Jill would be the brave
heroine, and I would be the villain, or the hero, or both as the need arose.
Sometimes
I would write these stories down. In 7th grade I drafted an entire
novel based on Robin Hood (I guess today you would call it fan fiction),
written in pencil on lined notebook paper. The TV series “The Adventures of
Robin Hood” (1955-1960) was at that time playing in reruns every afternoon. My
mother taught school, and I was supposed to practice the piano in the hour or
so I was on my own before she came home. Instead I, of course, had to hurry
home from the school bus to watch the brave adventures of Robin of Locksley, Maid Marian, Little John,
and all the rest of the merry band. Then I would take out my notebook and write
my own stories.
I
loved working out the details of the plot. How would Maid Marian outsmart the
wicked sheriff this time? What clever disguise would Robin use to thwart the
evil plans of King John? What kind of language would Friar Tuck use in his
dialogue? I wrote in pencil, and didn’t hesitate to erase if I thought of something
better to insert. I took my story to school and wrote in the odd moments when I
had finished my assignment. I wrote at my desk when I should have been doing
homework. I researched period dress in the school library. When we had a school
holiday, my first thought was, “I’ll have time to write the next chapter.”
Once I was sleeping over at Susie Peterson’s
house and as we lay in her flouncy canopy covered bed, I started telling her
the stories of Robin Hood. She proved a satisfyingly enthralled listener,
gasping and sighing as appropriate. When we got to a stopping place, she asked,
“How do you do it? How do you think of these stories?”
I lay
there for a little bit, staring up at the lace canopy above us. What a
question. How did I do it? Didn’t everybody do this kind of thing? Why did I do
it? I didn’t know.
Finally,
I responded the only thing I could think of. “I don’t know. It’s just fun.”
The
question I ask now is, when did I stop having fun creating stories? All I know
is I stopped doing it as I grew older. Did I get busy with more and more
adult-like responsibilities: studies and work and driving? Did I realize the
books I read were so much better than the ones I made up that I could never
measure up? Did I just begin to engage more in Real Life, and find that I no
longer needed to invent excitement in my life?
Whatever,
I stopped making stories either in my head or on paper, and somehow I can’t
help feeling that is a loss.
Though,
on the other hand, I did just write this little piece. Hmmm.
