I had an active imagination as a child, but maybe it wasn't anything special. My brothers and I were homeschooled so I didn't have much opportunity to compare notes with other kids. I'm sure my interior life as a six-year-old, for instance, was the same more or less as any six-year-old's interior life. Although I did have trouble with arts and crafts. My brothers were very creative and quite prolific in keeping our refrigerator covered in drawings, some of which were even done on paper, but my brain and hands had a communication problem. I mean, I could see the purple giraffe in a red dress and green galoshes but I couldn't draw it. I felt like the image didn't want to leave the warm confines of my imagination. Weird, I know. My father encouraged me just the same and would ask me to describe the giraffe to him, where it was going in its red dress, etc. My mother was afraid I'd fallen victim to perfectionism and pushed a sketch pad and crayons at me every chance she could. "Relax sweetie," she'd say. "Just draw what comes naturally. It will be perfect!" And then I'd stomp off in a snit because I didn't like being told what to do. No picture from Darla. Again. I couldn't really explain it as a kid. It's still hard to put into words, but there are a lot of dress-wearing animals carrying-on inside my head, I can tell you that much. The commotion makes it hard to concentrate.
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