The Man Behind the Imagination . . . a Tribute

My journey as a writer had a somewhat misguided beginning. I decided to take the writer’s journey when I was just 15 years old and obsessed with a certain horror writer named Stephen King. As far as my immensely naive self was concerned I was to become the next Stephen King and send the rest of the world cowering behind their bed sheets . . . and I gave it a shot, a serious shot, too.

Writing lesson one: Be the first of you, not the next of another.

I was a pale imitation of Stephen King and that was obvious in my writing. The stories had imagination, but the writing was terrible – there, I said it, and so should you. Recognising that you are not all you could be, or that you are heading in the wrong direction is key to taking yet greater steps along the pathway to success. This is not to be confused with experimentation, because that is key also, but trying to copy another writer will get you no further than fan fiction. It took a university lecturer to point this problem out to me, and the manner with which he did this changed my life forever. (My writing life, at least).

Writing lesson two: Read EVERYTHING!

My university lecturer told me to go away in the summer holidays and look up a man called RAY BRADBURY. Who the hell is that? I thought, having never heard of him before. Luckily I was good at following advice, and I did what I was told.

I purchased a copy of The Golden Apples of the Sun, an anthology of short stories by Mr Ray Bradbury, and I consumed the lot in under a week. I was amazed. His stories were written decades earlier yet were more relevant now than they’d ever been. The imagination behind them, the fantasy and sci-fi blend that he pulled off so well, the poetic nature of his writing that just flowed from the page stunned me beyond belief. I had found my muse. When ever I read one of his stories my own imagination kick-started into life. His words were the fuel for my thoughts, and I was unstoppable. The first stories I ever had published were born from my Bradbury Buzz!

That is not all, however. Not only was Ray Bradbury a terrific writer, he was an inspirational speaker too. The interview with Ray Bradbury below gave me the get up and go to write my story A View Through a Window (Story 2 on my homepage) and that also went on to be published.

He talks of writing everyday and reading everyday. During his interview above he sets a challenge to all budding writers. Read a short story a day, for every day of your life. Unrealistic, you say? Well, yeah, okay, I kind of agree. I managed to go for 3 month doing just that but I lacked the discipline to keep going. That isn’t to say that I didn’t learn a lot. Filling your mind with so many words and stories is invaluable, and I challenge you to try it and tell me you aren’t the better writer for it.

Anyway, I’ve talked enough. What I wanted to say was Thank You. Thank You Ray Bradbury, God rest your soul, for you have inspired me and made me the writer I’ve become today.

Maybe one day my novel will sell and I will be able to spread his message further, but until then this will have to do.

If you want to be a writer of fiction, whether short stories or novels, watch the interview below and read Ray Bradbury’s anthologies. You’ll thank me for it once, then thank him for a lifetime.

If we listened to our intellect, we’d never have a love affair. We’d never have a friendship. We’d never go into business, because we’d be cynical. Well, that’s nonsense. You’ve got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down.

Ray Bradbury

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Story 2 – View Through a Window

View Through a Window

 

I was stood by the sink with my hands warming in the water, scrubbing my left over pots and pondering a great many things. There was a plate, a fork, a knife, you know, the usual, and they were all mine, and they were all dirty. As I scrubbed and cleaned I peered out of my window and saw the most curious thing. Stood in the dead center of my garden was a man. I had never seen this man before, but there he was, looking at me and smiling.

          I didn’t know what to do. I mean, what was there to do?

          He raised his hand and waved, as though it were the most normal and natural thing in the whole world, and for some strange reason that even now I cannot explain, I lifted my hand from the water and waved back. There I stood with my hand dripping, staring at this man, alone, in the middle of my lawn.

           But then it hit me.

           I know him.

           I didn’t know him like you know a friend, or a neighbor, or a person you met at a party once and can no longer remember the name of; I had never met him before in my life, but I somehow knew who he was and why he was there. I think I’ve always known.

          Placing his hand by his side he turned around and looked up at the night sky. Right then, at that very moment, I dried my hands and walked out into the garden. I stood beside him and I looked up at the stars. Together we watched a while, feeling the cool, icy air on our skin, and the bitter wind as it ruffled our hair. I couldn’t tell you how long we stood watching the stars twinkle and shine. Even more curiously he smiled some more, and then he pointed.

          A single star, brighter than the others, floated high above the moon. There were over a thousand stars in that sky, but I knew immediately which one he was pointing at. For some reason I nodded my head and the man, standing on my lawn in the dead of night, picked the star right out of the sky like it was naught but a pin being plucked from a cork board. 

          He brought it down to his chest, smiled again, and then he spoke.

          “This one belongs to you.”

          “Thank you,” I said, though I don’t know why.

          As I held the star tightly in my palm, he wrapped his hands around mine and closed the star beneath our net of fingers. “What is it?” I asked.

          “It’s your dream,” he said. “It’s been up there all this time, but now you are ready to take it.”

          Turning around, the man walked down my garden path and out through my garden gate, shutting it quietly behind him. Opening my palm I stared for a moment at the star and then looked up at all the others. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.

          Back in the house I placed the clean pots back in the cupboards and then wrapped the star on a chain around my neck, and there is has remained from that day to this.

          I don’t think that man visits everyone, and I don’t even think he takes the same form each time, but if you are lucky enough to see him, then be sure to keep your star safe.Wrap it in velvet, place it in a box, or on a ring about your finger, or on a chain around your neck, but for the love of God don’t leave it out on the side, otherwise it will fade and that would be a shame.

          A terrible shame indeed.

Story 1 – Imagination Man

Imagination Man

 

It is said that there are three worlds. The first is a world where the sun shines and the clouds glide and the rain falls; a world where people buy houses, go to work and fall in and out of love. It is a world run by people, money, fear and loathing. It is a world built to end.

The second world is the afterlife; the world of the soul, spirit, the phantom and the ghost. It is a world run by the dead, for the dead. It is built on hope, faith, happiness and joy. It is a world designed to last.

But there is a third world.

It is a world that both the mortal and immortal alike visit on a daily basis without even knowing that they are there. It is a world that is ever growing, ever expanding, laughing and crying. It is a nightmare and a fantasy; euphoria and dejection. It is a world between worlds that only you and I can see.

It is my world, for I am the Imagination Man, and I am always watching, saving and collecting.

The world of the imagination is a joy and a curse, filled and fuelled by the dreams, fears and untruths of you and those you hold dear.

As I walk my quaint chocolate cobbled streets I see things you cannot even begin to imagine – or can you? Did these creations come from your mind? Did these phantoms of the heart stroll through my gates from your subconscious? Is it your mind that is turning the light into dark and the sea into stone?

I talk with such bleakness, because, you see, I remember a time – the time of the child – when all things in your world were bright and happy; a time when the fields of corn swayed peacefully in the springtime zephyr and birds chirped and sung their early morning song. It was a time when the smells of sugar cane, candy floss and the crashing sea mists filled the air and everything that you ate tasted of toffee-apples and ice-cream and syrup. It was a time of simple pleasures.

I remember the day you were taken to the park by your grandparents and you ate tuna sandwiches and chocolate and your imagination turned my world into a giant climbing frame built of jungle trees, vines and rushing rivers of chocolate fish. It was a world of adventure, laughter and secret quests. That day made me the happiest that I had been for a very long time . . .  but it was not meant to be.

Soon after came the time of adolescence and your mind turned my world into a swirling vortex of hallucination and paranoia. Your girlfriend filled every window down my imaginary street, holding and embracing others in scenes that you tried so hard to detain. Soon every door was padlocked, sealing your fears inside. You held back your dreams to save your fears, but it was too much. At the tender age of eighteen the padlocks in my world vaporised and your nightmares filled my life. Murderers, zombies and back-stabbing friends cavorted about my lands turning the sky black and the sun red. My own imagination could not build enough walls to save me from your ghosts.

But the worst was yet to come. Now, in your tender middle age, your imagination is all but gone. I spend my days walking through endless white seeing nothing but lottery balls and money piles and naked colleagues. I see only the bad, never the good. You no longer imagine a world that is free and limitless, but a world that is destined to be, and forever will be, restricted and closed. You see the worst and never the best; you do not dream of candy forests and talking pets, you do not think about the girl next door in a pretty white dress, you just see your life, your wife and the end of time. There is no light in your world, only dark.

I am here to tell you, dear reader, that that is not the way it’s meant to be. Dreams are only what you make them. You may think that these dreams of yours are nothing but imagination that must be restrained, but in my world they are fact, fate, and everything that matters. Don’t you see? If you lock your dreams away behind padlocked doors then there, forever, they will remain, until one day the locks will no longer hold and they will buckle and break and your mind will once again be set free and be filled with dreams and hopes and aspirations . . . but, by then it will be too late. By then you will have entered the age of the old and you will be able to do nothing but imagine your life in the way it could, and should, have been.

Dear reader I urge you, do not lock away your dreams, for they are real, more real than you could ever see; only you could see, if you put down the locks, and let them be.

For I am the Imagination Man and I come from a world where nothing is as it seems.

Introduction from me, the Imagination Man

Dear all,

I have decided to begin a blog in order to spread the word about my short stories and hopefully entertain some folks along the way. I have been writing fantastical stories for five years and have decided to finally unleash them on the world!

My stories so far have been enjoyed by all, considered strange by most and described as “genius” by another (though his place in my life is a purely fictitious one), but please, do not listen to me. I beg you to read on and make up your own minds, comment below if you must and tell the world that the Imagination Man is here.

My first story shall arrive at midnight.