Lori is my child muse. When life is complicated, I bring Lori to me for her innocence and her simplistic views on the world and the creativity she brings to my work.
I’ve been thinking a great deal about one of my characters, a child, her name is Lori. I often receive a visit from her when thinking about something to write about. We most often come together in the garden. The fact is, if there is an ideal writing place, then for me it’s sitting in the garden, not always practical, I’ll grant, and not on a day like today with the clouds thick, smoke-charcoal, fast flying, and liquid.
Today, then, is a study day.
How fortunate, I consider, to have a place to write when the elements, like writers' block, hurl in fast and furious. I begin to wonder about those places other writers go when looking for solitude, if indeed solitude is required. But then I remind myself that good writing will take the writer to any place. That’s when I figure writing serves a double purpose; it allows me escape, and the act of writing puts me where I want to be.
In this a fleeting thought…I’m interrupted…
Mr. Harry… the call is accompanied by a tapping on the window, a child’s face is looking through the rain that runs down the window, surrounded by clear rainproof fabric.
I push open the patio doors.
Lori, child…what a day to be visiting!
The gate is open Mr. Harry…I guess you were hoping I’d come? She says, kicking off rain boots, from which frog’s eyes are popping.
I’m not being a nuisance, am I, Mr. Harry?
Not at all, Lori.
This is a nice room, she says, do you come here often?
And she has a good look around the walls, the bookshelves, the prints on the walls, two hares pulling a sled, and elves having a picnic in the wood. On my desk are photos of my grandchildren. Scattered everywhere mementos from far and wide, documenting my many travels. But she stares longest at the chair where I sit to do my writing.
Most every day, I say. Then offer, maybe sit here, Lori, that chair isn’t safe, I tell her, pulling a piano stool in her direction.
I like chairs that twirl, Mr. Harry.
I understand, Lori, I’m sorry. It’s just…well..that chair…it’s the place I like to sit and write. Maybe another time, okay?
Okay, Mr. Harry. I bet this is the chair where you get creative isn’t it? She asks, pushing her little self onto the piano stool, legs dangling in stocking feet. Did you always want to be a writer? She asks.
It feels like a very grown-up question. I remember when I was ten, coming home on the evenings, having that look where the sun and wind had cracked and bronzed my face — and my imagination had been working overtime.
I was always a dreamer, Lori, maybe in that way I was destined to become a writer… I explain.
How does a writer attempt to explain such a thing? Answer a child what happens on the page while sitting in my safe place, dizzy with thoughts, ideas tumbling and falling all over the place? It is a world made up of scent and taste and touch; a world made of words, of warmth, and mystery.
…and you, Lori, what will you become? I ask, watching her slide off the piano stool and put her froggy rain boots back on…I’m surprised by the shortness of her stay.
Lori, you’re going so soon.
I know you want to write, Mr. Harry. I can feel it. It’s warm and safe here.
Yes, it is, Lori, I reply
I’ll close the gates, Mr. Harry. Thanks for letting me come in, she says, pulling her rain hood over to frame her face.
Lori, you didn’t say what you’d like to be.
She stood facing me, the rain falling on her in a soft hush.
I know you hate cliché’s, Mr. Harry, but I would like to be a ‘Window into Someone’s Soul.’
I watch while her dancer’s feet, in frog-green rain boots, disappear across the garden; a picture of perfect beauty on a cloudy day and reflecting momentarily all my experiences with those fictional characters that have become my friends, so entwined in my life, walking with me on sandy beaches, loving walks, then being in my study where so often I find new friends.
I only hope that when you write about your imaginary or real friends, you take walks to whatever place he or she is hiding. Lori is true love; she is the image of everything and everyone I need and will go on needing.
Bye, Lori…don’t be too long gone now.
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