“How much of your brain is your own? Do you ever think about that?” one of my characters asks the reader, in my ever-unfinished book series.
Where does imagination begin–how much am I creating, versus re-creating? I’ve been wondering about this recently. My readers have been saying similar things to me recently–that I transport them, take them to a different world. This is a personal goal achieved. But fiction, even sci-fi, has some base in reality at some point, right?
“The rays burned away the white, revealing weird tall rocks at random points along a distant side. Some were like fangs, some were like smoke stacks, some were like the pipes of an organ. Tall narrow evergreen trees could be seen stubbornly growing along the cliffs, miraculously not sliding off.”
So I’ve made up festivals, such as Melting Point. Would I effectively be able to make these imaginary events and their worlds, if I hadn’t experienced a few burnerific years in the recent before times? I will never know.
So I’ve made up settings, from cities to planets, and characters to populate them. Even in the most sci-fi of situations, aren’t I just putting my own out-there spin on reality?
These are general ponderings and I’m curious to hear from you about these experiences as a creative.
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