I’ve always been a daydreamer. From a tender age, I wove stories for myself, narratives in which I was most often the main player. When I wasn’t the hero, my role was that of the pawn or the sidekick or the observer who would remember it all when the rest of the world discounted such tales as mere legend. That last was a daunting responsibility. I took – take – it seriously.
My first memory of these daydreams, these living stories, is of looking at the world through a car window. I’d see the hills, the trees, the creeks and cow pastures, and watch the scenes unfold. Landscape was my first and best writing prompt. Still is. I fall into it with considerable frequency, this other story, an underlying track to my everyday life.
Coyote and crow waited in the desert garden. This friendship was fated.
I wept over a faerie tree, torn asunder.
Came to fight the beast. Made a friend instead.