Drifting Minds

by Emily Estes


As I sit and listen to the lecture my mind drifts. It drifts into a land of imagination, where all things are possible. Ideas pop into my mind, people, places, events. I let the imagination take hold and the stories unfold. It starts out with a picture in my mind, which is horrible sketched out on paper. I am a writer not an artist. The characters take names, friendships are formed. At first, there is no significance behind them, just things, ideas. As time goes on the dialog begins. It’s like my sister as a child, out of the five; she is the only one in her age group. She starts up conversations with her fingers or mannequins in a store. This is how my stories are invented.

As I start out, there is information here; plots there, things begin to unfold. The characters sit in a three ring binder on paper waiting to see what will happen next. What their next move will be. My writing is like an unfinished chess game. Each pawn strategically placed to win the game. This game is a win lose situation. If I make it back, my ideas can change, characters rearranged, or they stay the same.

As a writer I prefer for them to change, be moved here or there. This makes for a better, longer story. Most of the ideas are short lived originally. There is still a beginning, middle, and end, but the details are not formulated. Actions are not taken in depth. It’s just there. But when things change, new ideas come to light. Those unfinished things grow, deepen, and set root.

I am like the writer Luke Wilson plays in Alex and Emma. My characters tell me what comes next. My stories are formulated by a thought, an idea, or a person that intrigues me. Then I run, I run as far as it will let me with events, relationships forming as the lead character takes shape. My stories are not set out in a ven diagram, or brain bubbles. They move together as each character takes shape, through their own dialog, interactions, events. Their names changing as their identity becomes revealed. In my mind like my little sisters, my characters are real people. Their story does not stay within the margins I give them. They have a story before me, and as the writer I get to see a glimpse into their lives. Their story will continue after me. As I writer I hope they will let me in once more.

Once my story has structure, the events happening in chronological order, from there it is all about the detail, the explosive words, and the eye catching details. These are what make a reader want more. The sad facts about these stories are they are not long. There are more ideas flowing through the land of my imagination, but the question is where do they go? How can I add them? The story sits in my binder or on my shelf waiting diligently to be made into a novel. A story other people can read. The characters wait to share their story with others besides me the writer.

I let a few close people read what I have written. This is a scary feeling, to allow someone into my imaginary land. This is a land that only I can understand. What if they don’t get it? What if they think I belong in a crazy house because I like to write stories of pain, abuse, and destruction?

My stories do not always betray myself. I do not put myself in the stories as a character most of the time. Putting yourself in a story as a character is hard to do even if it is fictional. It requires an analysis of yourself. It makes you go deep within. Most of the time your story ends u0p jaded, because you cannot put in all the emotions that a true fictional character could have. This is why I will stick with my community that lives within my imaginary land. Granted when it comes to giving these characters names, sometimes they will end up with names of people I know. This is not because that is all I know, but because they may represent a little bit of that person. But this is also why the names change. A character named Katie for instance may start out having some of the same characteristics as my childhood best-friend, but as she grows she is no longer that Katie, but a Victoria. A person I have never known until now.

I know the way I write is strange no doubt. It is like Margaret Atwood said in her biography. I have no one to go off of. My family is not made up of writers, at least not yet. I do not befriend novelist. I do not know how Frank McCourt, Silvia Plath, Herman Melville, or any other novelist gets their story ideas; or how they formulate plots. All I know is when I am bored, sad, lonely, or given a prompt my mind enters into a wonderful place. The land of imagination, where my mind takes off down the streets, up the mountain side, or into the grocery store where my characters lives are taking place.