When I was a small child, I could while away entire days lost in my own imagination. My mother used to joke that I could amuse myself in an empty room with only a few tacks. It’s true, I probably could.
Anyone remember the Fisher Price Little People toys?
I loved these toys. I still do. I often find myself perusing ebay or shop.goodwill looking for these relics from my childhood. I scored this little gem, semi-furnished, at a yard sale last summer. It might have been $5?
Toys like this enabled me to play and imagine and create whole worlds. They didn’t make noise (although the doorbell rings, and oh! remember the barn that “moo”-ed when you opened the door? sigh), they didn’t light up, they didn’t plug into an outlet. Because they were both detailed AND innocuous, it was easy to impose characteristics that varied within your own imagination.
To me, it only makes sense that I got into writing as I grew too old to play with toys. Writing is just like playing with a Little People house – create characters, put them in a situation, and act it out (only in writing, you write it out). For me, I think about writing all the time. Every day I imagine what I would write if I had the time. I dream up topics, scenarios, play with words, all in my head.
I’m pretty sure I’d totally act them out if the little house was right there every time this happened.
It would seem that my daughter has a similar inkling. She loves to play with anything small. People are made out of erasers, soaps, tater tots. Those crappy toys in the Happy Meals? She loves them – I secretly throw them out.
I wonder what she dreams about when she plays.
I am participating in Project52 at my3boybarians.com – one photo each week for a year. Check them out!