It's An Animal Cracker Morning

Image via WikipediaI can hear what you're thinking. What am I doing up this early and why am I writing a post about it? I respect your questions. In fact, I may even be wondering the same things myself.

Today, dear people, is Monday. Yes, I know it's fairly obvious from the way your bodies don't want to do anything, but hear me out. It's Monday and I'm awake, coherent--or at least enough to be able to type so you can read it--and I'm currently looking at a bag of animal crackers.

What's the significance you may ask? My, my, my, aren't you all a bunch of curious folks in the morning.

Well, those animal crackers symbolize my childhood. They also make me sing "Animal Crackers in My Soup" in my head whenever I see any, but this post isn't about my humming habits.

Childhood. It's a place of myth and legend. Somehow, my mind distinguishes between those two things and separates them, yet places childhood in both categories. Children, those little people, have the ability to exist in two worlds: ours and theirs.

Our world, the world of fact and logic, is what we call reality. It makes sense and, as adults, we like it that way. Reality makes us feel like we have some control over what happens in our lives. Reality is real.

But children live part of the time in a world all their own, where reality mingles with fiction. They have imaginary friends and conduct intense tea parties with a nine course meal. Their conversations deal with the nonsensical and fantastic. Their young minds cannot grasp the fullest idea of our reality, and that is what makes them special.

As writers, we all have to nourish our inner child. We do this is many ways, mine at the moment is pretending my animals crackers are alive and have their own names, lives, friends, enemies, etc. It's childish and that's what makes it fun. It feeds my inner child. She appreciates it and it shows in my writing.

All writers have to have a sense of the childish. It's what makes writing so much fun and makes our works rich. All literature, in order to become worthwhile, must appeal to the inner children of its readers. They may not know what is so interesting about a book because they've never acknowledged their own inner children, but the thrill they get from reading something comes from that secret place.

So, thus ends my little Monday morning post. I hope it makes enough sense and perhaps even no sense at all. Have a great week!