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Reader, obviously I haven’t ever actually found a dead body or murdered anyone, at least you hope not, for the latter.

Dead-Body-Outline

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But as a writer I have to try to tap into the emotion to give you, reader, a credible experience when reading my stories.

Sometimes life throws things my way that make writing a chore rather than a pleasure and this last week was one of them.

Usually reader I find it very easy to write about love, being in love, feeling loved and feeling like I’m special to someone. But this week I didn’t. No real reason for it, but regardless I was full of self doubt and felt pretty useless. I think this started with my cat, Mr Flynn, not coming home on Sunday afternoon. He is usually hanging around, and as we had visitors, he was more likely to be close by. He is such a busy body. When he didn’t show up I started feeling slightly concerned, but not overly worried. He is a cat, cat’s are unpredictable. But he always came home when we did. He didn’t actually ever wander too far anyway, there being a decent supply of mice and critters to hunt in the four back yards he calls his territory. As we had visitors I was trying very hard (unsuccessfully I’m told) to not panic, cry and blubber. I prayed, my friends and family prayed and he did come home eventually. He was a scared and uptight little thing for a few days, and I have no idea what had gone on, but he was home and I didn’t care.

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But reader, this scary and emotional evening proved to be good writerly fodder. As I’ve said previously, I haven’t ever lost anyone close, found a body, witnessed a murder. So as a writer I have to rely almost entirely on my imagination. I’m glad I have an overactive imagination. Even if it led me to visualising some nasty neighbour (none in particular) whacking Flynn on the head with a shovel or dog’s tearing him apart! I know, overreaction for a barely missing cat, but that’s me!

imagination

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Does anyone else suffer from the agony of having too good an imagination? Do you look on drama and emotion in your own life as writing fodder? Am I alone in this weird tendency?