I feel like sometime near the end of high school or maybe early in my first attempt at college, I allowed my creative storytelling muscles atrophy. I feel confident that when properly motivated I can craft a descriptive enough sentence, or properly employ simile and metaphor, bring to bear a diverse vocabulary... but I rarely create from nothing a scene of the fantastic. I was once a worldbuilder. In 3rd grade I purchased the rights to a concept around which I constructed a nearly rules-free role-playing game that literally entertained me and dozens of my acquaintances for about a decade. In my mind was the universe in which they trounced about on hundreds of ad libed adventues. The price I paid for this potent seed of inspiration was a green Hotwheels car.
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| This one on Ebay may actually be THE car I traded him. |
Gone are the days of anthropomorphic animals with comic-book super-powers, evil geniuses, pocket universes, Diamond-wing Starfighters, Spell tomes in esoteric languages, and marathons of mental chess with my friends and frienamies.
I feel like I need to be a worldbuilder again. I need to make up flavorful characters experiencing wild scenarios in funky places. I need some of my youthful mental energy back.
The world does not need the drivel I will spew, any more than it needs the images I capture and create, but I have a need to freeze and manipulate light, and I have a need to craft word... I make for me.
