I remember suggesting that my parents play pretend and imagine they were in another world. They shook their heads, smiled, and explained how grown ups can’t imagine things like children can. This frightened me, and I swore to them that I would always be able to imagine.
Perhaps my ambition to be a writer of fiction is a result of this promise to myself. Perhaps the reason that I’ve been struggling so much lately is because – despite my best efforts – I’ve become a grown up.