I’m sitting in my office, staring out the window as snow obscures the hill around Corning. Yeah, you heard me, snow… in April… in almost May.

That aside, Mer is sitting at the little desk working on her English work. Her book is asking her to write a story about what she would do if she were a kite. I’ve been working on Atom & Go and trying to help her at the same time.

Multi-tasking is not my forte.

But, as I try to help and explain personification, it’s turning wheels in my own head. As we get older, it seems that we drift away from true personification. When was the last time you read a story about a talking hat or a living sword that that wasn’t a children’s book? What about any other inanimate object?

We are more apt as adults to see the personification of animals. The Art of Racing in the Rain leaps to mind. Or perhaps Watership Down.

Actually, we are more apt to see personification as a quick literary device in adult, creative arts. I wonder why that is? Why is a talking bear a sign of mental illness instead of a sign of creativity?

Perhaps this post isn’t so much about the level of personification we see in writing, but more targeted at the decline of imagination with age.

Adults become so grounded in reality that they often don’t have time for imagination.

I look at Henry and wonder when I lost his ability to turn anything, absolutely anything, into a blaster and have everything around me melt away and  to leave behind an imaginary world full of adventure. The characters and dangers that erupt from his mind leave my head spinning.

As a writer, I believe I’ve held onto some of the imagination I had as a child, but I’m a far cry from attacking the bushes and hedges with homemade swords and shields as the forces of Mordor close in.

Why do adults insist that imagination is childish?

Maybe Piers Anthony had it right, most adults are stuck in Mundania and only children and the chosen few are ever able to witness the spectacles and wonders of our imagination, i.e. Xanth.

Oh well, I’m probably talking myself in incoherent circles. I’ll blame it on the solitude and the fact that I’m bouncing my ideas off myself instead of real people. I’m kind of like Rapunzel in my tower, locked away from everyone. Except I just shaved most of my hair off so I have no hope of rescue.

Maybe it’s a blessing that most people lack imagination. Otherwise the world would be overrun with novelists.

Hopefully you are finding an imaginary world to slip into. So, keep on reading, keep calm, and keep on flying the Black.