Imagine being able to be whoever you wanted to be. To be able to live many different lives and switch between them at will and if you get bored, you just add another one. To do whatever you want without any consequences at all. To say what you want to whoever you want and for them to react the way you want them to. To go back and start again. Well you can, sort of. You can write. Ok, so it’s not real. It has its limitations but they belong to you. Your imagination is in charge of that. It’s still pretty wonderful though. I am addicted to the blank page, to the endless possibilities that lie within. I know there is much more to learn. I infiltrated the camp when no-one was looking and somehow avoided detection. How long that will last is anyone’s guess but I am here and the now is the only place I can live. I am not sure what is coming I don’t have a map or even a compass. I am not leaving. I know that. It’s really the only certainty there is because you can’t unknow what you know. I mean apart from death and taxes and the sun and the moon. Oh, you get what I mean. I am learning to write within a word count or within restrictions. I am learning what works and what doesn’t. How to express myself in a way that it can be understood in words alone. I am not saying I always manage it or even that I am good at it. Please note the word learning.
I have found I have a number of voices and I am trying to work out what fits where. I am getting to know myself as a writer and it is taking me to places I never expected to go. It's
exciting if a little scary at times.
I have made up characters and thought about them interacting with one another in situations I have never experienced. I have played with real places and arranged them how I would want them to be as if they were furniture in a room. I have examined what would happen if using real scenarios and then twisting them or sending them in another direction. It feels powerful and I can do no harm.