Early on, before I had trouble coming up with anything to write each morning, I wrote a few bits about pixies. The idea was to be that my children had been kidnapped. Taken to Faerie. And needed rescueing—or something.
That story never resolved enough for me to determine if the girls had been taken or run away or just plain lost. The possibility existed that I was kidnapped and they needed to save me. Or that may be confusion with another story I’ve had going stale in the intermitantly stocked pantry that is my brain.
Since the time I wrote that I’ve been invaded by rubberized plastic and DVD versions of nearly what I wanted to create at the time. These real invaders are quite a bit more Disney in both style and copyright than mine were to be. This pixie writing of mine came to mind because of last week’s plunking around with four women on a fantasy quest one frozen morning. The pixies would be more funner.
So many author’s have been motivated by telling stories to their children. I should tap into that motivation. Maybe instead of reading stories before bedtime I should be making them up and sharing them with my daughters.