My late father was a holocaust survivor who lost every member of
his family. He lived this dark nightmare in his teens, and came out of it not
only a physical survivor, but also a person capable of deep love for humanity.
When my stepmother asked him how he survived, she was not
asking about factual practical details. She was asking about his psyche, which
was exceptional in endurance and creativity.
“I dreamed,” he said. “I’m still a dreamer.” I imagine that wherever he is now, he's surely dreaming.
I realize that I’m his daughter in this sense. I have not
had to endure the horrors of his youth, but I have had challenging times. From an
early age, I, too, dreamed.
When I was in kindergarten, I imagined that I had a real Mickey
Mouse for a special friend. My secret pet lived under my bed, where no one else
ever saw him. When everyone went to bed, Mickey and I would talk for hours, and
he even gave good advice, that mouse.
I continue to dream. Only now, it’s a focused engagement that
winds up in the form of manuscripts for young readers. This is part of why first
drafting a story is my mental and emotional salvation. The rest of the work is dues I pay for spending so many hours dreaming.
When friends tell me they can’t write fiction, I know they
are not focused dreamers. Or perhaps they don’t realize that when they use their
imagination to solve problems, there is focused dreaming going on, which they
could use in serving a story.
To all you dreamers~~~
