I'm grateful for so many gifts in life.
My health (apart from old age knee ache, hip ache, eye ache, and writerly soul ache), the fortune of being born in a developed and rich country, a loving family, and friends, and so much else...
But perhaps most importantly for a writer, the gift of imagination.
I was taking a stroll today in some pastures new, when I saw this -
To some, an old tree. To me - a wicked woman of the woods, who wrought evil on the world, and was eventually punished by being imprisoned forever in timber form.
And all that formed in my mind in an instant. Oh, how I love my imagination with a joyful passion.
Ok, so sometimes it gets carried away -
Like my dreams of being handsome, charming, witty, charismatic, hugely intelligent and entertaining, etc etc.
But mainly because of all the great adventures it's brought me.
The books, stories and characters it's led me to create, and all the journeys they've taken me on, the people I've met, the places I've visited.
In a word - wow.
All because of the strange, inexplicable worlds the pulsing of electricity and the flowing of chemicals in the boney walls of our skulls can give rise to.
Thank you, sweet fates, for the quiet, far too often underrated gift of imagination.
Without you, I - we all - would be so very much the poorer.