When I walked home with my kids today, it crossed my mind that it was kind of odd that I move my mind to such strange worlds when I write.
Yes, I know, it is called imagination and is something all writers are graciously provided with, but still it feels kind of unfair to leave the best of worlds to write about something else entirely.
Yet, in some ways, it is not something else entirely. I write stories which I believe transfer values that in my opinion would do some decent in this world. Yet my worlds are populated by killers, thieves and egoists and all kinds of negative emotions flutter around; All to pinpoint that “right” emotion and behavior which will save the world - you need all that bad and difficult to show the "path".
I looked at the kids running ahead, finding a new path over boulders and under bushes, and thought that they are so far from these worlds of mine that anyone can be.
When does the human mind find all these negative emotions and use them against other people?
No, I can’t think that way. Because the stories I write, represent the real world as much as Sleeping Beauty does. We want to hear other stories than those we have around us. I also think that we want to be guided in what is right and wrong, even if it is obvious that kindness works better than wickedness.
What kind of worlds do my kids travel to when they play?
My guess – and my hope – is that it is a world supremely far from the tough Bond-alike hardcore world their mom travels to, where she tries to squeeze in her gentle and caring character into an assassin that is likely Bond’s next target (which happens to be a problem every time they meet, because somehow this steel hard assassin becomes sensitive as soon as she opens her mouth).
It is odd that there are such contrasts between my real life and the worlds I create. You should know that today my kids tremendously gently stroked the petals of the spring flowers and said they were sweet.