I have a rich inner world. A treasure chest of stories in my head. A personal copy of a “1001 Arabian Nights”-type book in which I write all the tales. No big deal, right? I’m a writer. All writers have thriving imaginations. It’s what makes us able to create the stories people want to read.
And I supposed that’s how everyone’s inner life worked. We create great works of fiction – sometimes contemporary, sometimes sci-fi or fantasy (mine are nearly all sci-fi and fantasy…) – in our heads. Everyone amuses themselves with reimagined movie plots, book retellings, and original stories when they have time to think aimlessly, right? I assumed as much, until I had a discussion about it with my husband one night.