Creativity is useless
If you don’t like narrative writing, skip the “retrospect” section.
This foggy memory comes out of the abyss of my mind every time I think about what lead me to write. That evening could be described with choaking laughs as we told stories about the past. We had been invited to dinner at my cousin’s place. One of the rare moments we shared with our family back in 2009. Yet my younger cousin insisted on showing-off his talents as a new reader. Bubbling with joy he stood up, unsolicited and read an entire paragraph of “The Famous Five” with varying tones and facial expressions.
Such drama! I was outraged, he was 6 and I was 8, yet the sentences on a page were ancient Latin to my brain. I could read them in perfect English without capturing the meaning they withheld. The tinting of forks on plates stopped. My mom stopped her teeth from going deeper in the meat as she listened to his cocky little voice.
Scratching my head to find a way to redirect the attention to my “said intelligence” I replied what was thought to be stupid at the time:
TV is way better than reading!
The pin-drop silence was shattered once again with laughter. I was laughing too. Yet, they were laughing at me, not with me.
My aunt proceeded by praising the magic world of literature and how it could enhance imagination by stimulating the right side of the brain. I did not even know my brain had two sides. Maybe I would have known if I had devoted my time to flipping pages instead of binging naruto?
So I started reading. I read 10 books in the following month. Small children’s book but I read them all from back to back. I started seeing images of my fictional characters in my mind like my cousin described. I was stimulating the right side of my brain. I was developing my imagination.
Yet, what did I do with all my imagination?