In my writing for publication class we are currently studying the art of memoirs. Sadly, there is not enough truth to go into a memoir about me or my childhood to make it even slightly interesting. Believe me i've tried. i always get stuck after "I was born..."
i am a Fiction writer. my body and mind ease into the world of fiction like a fish into water, it's simply something that is naturally put and naturally belongs. as i walked to breakfast this morning after the current down pour that Laie has been experiencing, i noticed puddles. puddles in the flowerbeds. puddles on the sidewalk, puddles. oh the very many puddles i noted. but upon closer inspection i found that they were not puddles at all, no, not puddles in the slightest! they were, in fact, worlds. there was a world of mermaids in the lagoon with giant flowers, an entire civilization grew and flourished near the lake with the cemement soiled bottom.
this is the world i live in. i cannot write a memoir, for others will call it false and call it fiction, but the truth of the matter is the world in my head is more realistic than any "reality" through which others percieve their lives.
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