I like writing. You get to tell stories. You get to make stuff up. Like Sedgewick. Say hi to Sedgewick. He’s seven. He’s in Mrs. Alabaster’s second grade class. He’s the second shortest in the class–only Molly is shorter, but she can run faster than Sedgewick can. Sedgewick is the kind of boy who’s quiet–not because he’s shy, but because he doesn’t know what to say. He’s the kind of kid who nobody notices until he does something wrong. Sedgewick shuffles to the bus stop by himself every morning in his light blue Converse sneakers. His backpack dwarves him, looming atop his shoulders. It’s a plain backpack, not a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers backpack or even a Mickey Mouse backpack. It’s just plain. But Sedgewick likes it, because it used to belong to his brother. Sedgewick’s hair is always messed up. It always looks like he just took off a sweatshirt with a tight neck. Sedgewick is the kind of kid who would pick dandelions for his mother, if his mother was still around. Instead he gives them to his grandmother, who always thanks him and puts them in a vase on the kitchen table. This always makes Sedgewick smile.
That’s why I like writing. I just created the seven year old character, Sedgewick. He doesn’t exist until I say he does, and he has no traits until I give them to him. And it’s not that I like it because it’s a power trip. I like it because characters themselves are powerful. I can create in my readers certain feelings for Sedgewick, based solely on the type of character he is. That’s fun. It’s also kind of like creating your own cast of imaginary friends.
I don’t have to be deep everyday, do I?