PRACTICE
Spend fifteen minutes free writing about the creativity of children.
When you’ve finished, post it in the comments and comment on a few other practitioners’ pieces.
Photo by Steve Jurvetson
Here’s my practice:
I held the door as they unloaded the truck, counting the pieces of furniture as they came in. By seven new pieces I had formulated a plan: once everything was unloaded, I was going to re-purpose the boxes.
On that day, the full-size cardboard boxes from my parents’ new living and dining room sets became a house in our basement.
Not yet old enough to drive to the store, my sisters and I had to beg for someone to go get us more duct tape. We’d used every roll found inside our house and were eying up the book-binding tape when Mom finally gave in.
After we used fifteen rolls of duct tape they told us to stop counting because they didn’t want to know anymore. But for the cost of fifteen rolls of duct tape, we had hours of entertainment in a free-standing play house that could rival any neighborhood kid’s.
The cardboard home in our basement had four bedrooms, two hallways, a kitchen, a living room, and even a car. Cut up magazines made closets, a pantry, and furniture while box flaps made doors.
Inside the cardboard house, imaginations were free to run wild. The cardboard car became a space ship and the bedrooms had secret passageways for time travel. Inside our cardboard house, anything was possible.
The creativity of children is free and unburdened in a way that of an adult never is. Untethered, are they, to the restraints of logic, and able to climb and crumble the walls of reason. As we grow, these barriers will grow with us, daunting us and biting back the creative mind that was once so strong within us.
The children do not need the sciences to believe, do not heed the opinion of others as their mind takes flight, shaping the air around them into something entirely new, surreal, and beautiful. Molding the ordinary into the extraordinary, making the normal into the paranormal.
But the luster will fade from this brilliant, magical world, dulled and dirtied by the forces governed to be true, holding back the possibilities only alive in our minds. Children never feel the cuffs and chains that bind the rest of us to reality, to Earth. They are able to soar to new heights and new places, a place completely untouched by rationale and filled with wonder.
Wonder is what sets us apart. The wonder that there could be more, just behind that veil that flutters in the winds of our imagination, letting us catch glances and snatches of what could be.
What limits what could be? Is it the laws of physics, or is it the human mind, slowly turning blind to that gleaming world behind the veil. The wind stutters and dies. Life goes on.
It will never hold the same level of excitement, that hype of whirling images that made up worlds to play in, and creatures to speak to. We will wistfully remember the times we went on fantastical adventures, with the only confines that of your mind, wishing we could live it all again.
But without use, the imagination rusts and festers, decaying in disuse. We will remember, we will wish, and we will never forget.
~~~
Huh. Not sure what to think of that…
I love your last paragraph. I think those are my favorite lines.
Thanks 🙂
I hope that really happened, because it’s awesome!
Yes, it really happened. No idea how we managed to build a four-bedroom box house without any photos…
I always try to maintain the imagination that I harbored in my childhood when writing. Spending so many days outside reading good stories and enacting ones of my own, shaped me into the writer I am today.
That’s a great thing to work on, Karoline.
When I was younger and less inclined to care what others thought about the things I was doing, I liked to imagine other worlds and civilizations. It was easy; I would close my eyes and soar above the earth, gazing down on the houses and factories and cars and people moving like ants beneath me, until I at last settled to the earth again in some strange and distant place. Once there, I would use the power of my imagination to invent an existence. I might become a potentate of some sort, or a statesman, or a kind and generous benefactor to many – I almost always held some position of esteem, due to what I judged to be my unending generosity and friendly spirit.
Others in my imaginary world were equally kind, even if they were poor or suffering. I would find myself invited to many a meal by some older person, who often favored a grandmother or a beloved uncle…and we would eat their humble food and talk of their problems. When I was ready to leave, filled with the lightness of their spirit and wonder for their ability to cope with life’s hardships, I would always leave something: a handful of gold coins or a valuable possession of some sort, so that they might benefit from it. This was my way of helping my imaginary new friends. It made me feel good to be able to do this. Then I would board my spaceship or my flying machine and wave goodbye to them as I soared once again above the trees, coming to rest in my own world, about the same time my mother would call me to dinner. And I would never, ever tell my parents about the other people, afraid that someone from our world would wish them harm. It was my duty to protect them, you see.
Today I wish the world was that simple. Or that I was that youngster again, free to imagine without fear of being judged. Hmmmm, maybe I can be him…
If you write those stories, you can be. Funny how active our imaginations are when we’re younger and later they feel so stifled.
Agree totally about stifled adult imaginations.
Oh, I hope you NEVER lose this imagination! But like Giulia said, you won’t if you keep writing them. What a gift!
The box of crayons was brand new. The child didn’t know it, but the names of those colours would delight her. Sunflower yellow, midnight black, blue-violet, brick red–the colours caught her eye and she sat, delighted and determined to make the most beautiful picture ever. Her teacher twittered merrily at her as she explained what colours to use, and the five year old started. Brown for the hair, because her own hair was brown. Green for the leaves of the flower, but then, black for the petals. Pink for the sun peeking from behind an orange cloud, and purple for the rain. Grey for the umbrella and soon the whole picture was a palette of colour. Not a white spot in sight and she had used every colour in the box! She proudly called, “I’m done!” and her teacher glanced over. She smiled, her eyes big and wide and said, “how very colourful dear” and dissolved into laughter with the bright laughter of the five year old girl.
someone knows children 🙂
Thanks Sandy.
Thank you for the trip down memory lane as I recalled the names of those colours and my own new box of Crayolas at the start of the school year. Only a young child would want to colour the WHOLE page and attempt to use every crayon in the box – sadly as we grow up, we listen to teachers and friends about the “rules” for colouring the “right” way. Well done!
Thank you for the trip down memory lane as I recalled the names of those colours and my own new box of Crayolas at the start of the school year. Only a young child would want to colour the WHOLE page and attempt to use every crayon in the box – sadly as we grow up, we listen to teachers and friends about the “rules” for colouring the “right” way. Well done!
Glad you enjoyed it! Art never has any rules you should follow!
Most unsure kids in small Bible Belt towns were told “WWJD.” “What would Jesus do?” “What would Jesus do?” It was hammered into them from the crib to the grave.
James was different. He lived under a different mantra.
WWOPD?
What Would Optimus Prime Do?
Sitting on the swing-set plopped across the street from his house, James saw Optimus Prime watching him. Optimus always watched him.
James began to swing. He pushed up as hard as he could and kicked out his legs as far as they’d go. He did it for Optimus. Optimus was fearless and he had to be fearless.
James pictured the giant robot smiling at him. Maybe, because of his bravery on the swing-set, Optimus would ask him to go on the next mission! The thought caused James to flush with pride and swing harder. He kicked out his legs, making contact with Starscream, who shrieked and flipped away into the distance.
Optimus gave James a huge thumbs up.
In his reverie, James completely missed the fight that had broken out on the blacktop next to him.
When he noticed, James froze and skidded to a halt using the toes of his sneakers. An older kid was punching a small boy who lay on the ground, sobbing. His heart began pounding as he pictured his older brother punching him on their kitchen floor.
He began to run away then stopped.
WWOPD?
James faltered. This was probably Megatron’s doing.
WWOPD?
James knew exactly what Optimus would do. Optimus would swoop in, kick some butt, then give everyone a message about being kind or helping your neighbor.
Steeling himself, James tried swooping in. It was more like a stumble but he managed to push the bully off the kid. The bully looked at him and, just as James was about to say “Let’s work out our differences by talking”, the bully punched him in the nose.
James never saw Optimus or Bumblebee or anyone bleed before. But, sure enough, blood gushed out his nose as the bully ran off. He wanted to cry, but then heard a meek “thanks” below him. James looked down and saw the little boy staring at him as if he were a superhero.
James swelled and forgot all about the blood. He looked up and said “Cool.” Optimus winked back at him.
Adorable story, NW.
This is gorgeous!
<3 !!
The BEST example of this is the Oscar winning short by a filmmaker who captured his little ones making up the BEST story, ever–he recorded it, and created a cartoon of it. See it here, and be awed by the genius of it all–if you have little ones at home, remember to LISTEN a lot:
http://youtu.be/vTgma3KJuSw
Thanks for passing this on
If you’re my age, you may have seen the Maypo and other commercials the same filmmaker created. They were hilarious and featured his wee ones, too. I thought it was such a genius idea, using those children’s voices.
What a creative way to capture a sweet moment between brothers. They’re adorable!
I had an apple called Fred once. We were at a small playground in Moore Park, and we’d brought some food, including a few apples. We were all there – Mum, Dad, James, Edward, Harry, Jack and me. I wandered over to the basket, picked up a red apple, and declared, ‘His name is Fred.’
My brothers were not going to be out done. James grabbed his own apple and named it George. Harry was next. His apple was also called Fred. I didn’t like that.
‘My apple’s already called Fred,’ I told him. ‘Pick a different name.’
‘Fine. He’s called Max then.’
‘Mine’s called Sam,’ said Edward.
‘You can’t call it Sam,’ said Harry.
‘Can too.’
‘No you can’t. Sam’s my name.’
‘No it isn’t. You’re apple’s called Max.’
‘Yeah, but when we play games, I’m always Sam. That makes it my name.’
‘You’re not using it now.’
‘I want an apple too,’ Jack whined.
‘What are you going to call yours?’ Mum asked him.
Jack thought for a second. ‘Fred,’ he said happily.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said James. ‘Antonia already called her apple Fred. You can’t use that name.’
‘James, don’t call Jack names,’ said Dad.
‘I want it to be called Fred,’ said Jack.
‘Well, you can’t call it Fred,’ said James.
‘My apple’s called Fred,’ Jack yelled, rapidly heading towards a full-blown tantrum.
‘If Jack’s apple can be called Fred, then mine’s called Fred too,’ said Harry.
‘Mine’s called George,’ said Edward.
‘Hey!’ said James. ‘That’s what mine’s called.’
While the area around the food and our parents deteriorated into a lot of yelling, I
wandered off to the playground, eating my apple.
I love this. Great gripper of an opening line.
Thanks. =]
I love how you instigated and then retreated leaving behind mayhem! Did that happen often being the baby girl of a bunch of boys?
Thanks. It happened a bit, but it was more often the older boys winding up the younger ones. I’m actually the oldest of the five of us, so I’m often the one trying to calm everyone back down.
FANTASTIC first line and a sweet, funny story – thanks!
Do toymakers allow for modification by users? I doubt if they consult their market when designing something new.
My little tin car, a shiny red with plastic wheels, was my first real toy when I graduated from baby rattles and soft cuddly animals. Very soon the wheels fell off. The paint began flaking so I scraped it all off; the car looked much better in metallic silver.
I had hours of fun playing in the sand outside our house. It wasn’t a toy anymore, it was a scraper-car building roads through the desert. That toy which now bore little resemblance to the one given me on my birthday, became part of my world. I carried it around with me and come nights placed it on my bedside locker..
When cellphones first appeared on the market I had a problem figuring out how they worked. In my mind you had to ‘dial’ a phone, which meant sticking your finger in little holes and spinning the dial. All these little buttons, some with funny symbols just confused me. My little eight-year old granddaughter helped me out. With an exasperated flick of her hair, i might add, because I couldn’t figure out something so simple.
Afterwards I went through the motions to make sure I’d get it right the next time. It still didn’t make sense.
Not to mention pressing the phone against your ear when speaking. Then your mouth was some distance away around the corner from the phone. How then did it pick up your voice?
We oldies fear change, because it upsets our routines built up over years, but kids welcome anything new. Because it’s not B.O.R.I.N.G. For them there’s no novelty in routine or procedure.
Yay, after world travel, a new job, and kids home for summer, fall has brought routine to my life once again! I hope I’m able to make The Write Practice a more regular part of that routine. Time will tell.
***
I’m not sure that I was a creative child as much as mischievous. My brother was creative. Two years younger, he was my playmate of choice. He and my little sister.
One spring we turned our old metal bunk bed into a fort. We hung sheets from the underside of the top bunk, hammock style. With a coon skin cap and variety of toy weapons the bunk became the Alamo.
It rain for 30 days straight that spring. As part of our homeschool work we charted the weather for a month.That’s how I know it rained so many days in a row.
We used a linen closet full of sheets, camping out, hiding from enemy danger. One night mom even let us sleep, three in a row, in our bunk bed hammocks. We had a cool mom, and we knew it.
Time passed in imagination and other worlds. For a season, a blanket and a couch cushion were transformed into all sorts of things and in the process transformed us.
We look forward to seeing you around here more again, Beck.
Take us into those camp outs. 🙂
My sister and I had a game we called “playing.” We usually did this in our beds before we went to sleep. We’d create characters and come up with running stories about them.
We were both in love with the Monkees, so for quite a while our stories were about Davy and Micky in particular. Poor Mike and Peter were minor players at best. We didn’t think they were as gorgeous as the other two, and anyway, Mike was already married so he couldn’t become a boyfriend. We did, though, create story lines making his wife Phyllis our best friend.
We had another game we played when it was raining called “Storm at the Dorm.” We starred as college students (Woo-hoo! The coolest of the cool!) cozy and safe inside their dorms while thunderstorms raged outside.
Rituals were part of “playing.” Each night one of us would set a time limit for how long we’d play. Our sessions consisted of “Premium Playing Time” and “Bonus Time.” In a formal voice created especially for the game, one of us announced “Premium Playing Time: 15 minutes. Bonus Time: 10 minutes.”
We had toys, of course, but preferred making people up. One of my favorites was “Clyde,” a silly, uncouth, excitable guy with odd expressions he came up with. Clyde often talked to himself or about himself. “Hello, Clyde! Have a happy greeting, Clyde!” Clyde loved other people, but was generally dismissed as too ridiculous to bother with.
I haven’t thought about “playing” for quite a while. I’m a new fiction writer and my “inner critic” tends to tear down my short story ideas and tell me I don’t have much of an imagination. Yeah, right!
I love the idea of “playing” in bed. My sisters and I had to stop sharing a room because one of us would talk all night… It wasn’t even me–believe it or not. 😉
We never had to stop sharing a room, but my dad would call in Latin up the stairs that we had to go to sleep.
Our trip to California had come to an end. Out of the list of places we visited, Catalina Island was the highlight of our trip. We had been to the pebbly beach, the wonderful ice cream shoppe, and the glass bottomed boat. However the trip to the Island Gift Shop before we left was worth the expense and timeless memory.
The Island Gift Shop was a last minute time-killer while waiting for the boat off of Catalina. My kids were good. They knew not to touch things in the store; even though the oldest two were only six years old. My oldest son was one that never seemed to ask for much. The other two were almost like rubber balls bouncing from one item to the next.
“Mom, look at this!”
“Oh, Mom, –How much is this?”
Upon seeing a baby doll my daughter said, “Oh, isn’t she precious?”
I looked over to see my oldest boy plastered to a tall glass case. Inside were delicate pieces of someone’s imagination. All were made out of some kind of rock, and painted the most fairy-like shimmery colors of greens, blues, and golden yellows. There were small villages, a church, little houses, huts, and castles. The castles varied in size from as small as the palm of your hand to one that stretched to fill a whole shelf in the cabinet. My darling boy had his eye on one in particular that was small and narrow. It had a path that winded up past two towers that were studded with green fake jewels. It looked exactly like something you would see in a story book. As I stood there he almost whispered,
“Mom, please can I have it? I promise I won’t ever ask for anything else for a whole two years. I promise. How much is it? Is it too much?”
I looked at him and thought I saw big tears in his eyes. I wasn’t sure and certainly didn’t want to disappoint him. He had the most delicate of feelings of all three children. I looked at the price and saw that it was $25. That didn’t seem too bad, but when you multiplied it by three, it was a lot for our young family. Nevertheless, I decided we would indeed get this castle and something of equal value for the other two children. Making our purchases we made our way home via boat, plane, and car.
It was good to be home again. We could smell the “country” smells of the farmland that surrounded our home. The Midwest was like that, a place to call home for a family. The trees tall and green gave us shade, the fields golden with wheat and ready for harvest provided an enclave from the busy city, and the crickets and other creatures heard at dusk rang out a welcoming tune. I assumed my “motherly” duties of unpacking suitcases, sorting dirty clothes, bathing three children, and putting everyone to bed.
A final duty at my children’s bedtime was to tuck them in with a kiss and lights out. I knew each one of them were tired, and I knew that being in their own beds after our ten day adventure along with the night sounds outside their windows would soon lull them asleep.
As I entered my oldest son’s room I saw that the Castle had a place of honor on his chest of drawers. It was in the center of all of his trophies from t-ball and soccer. As I took in the room, I realized he was crying. I sat down on the edge of his bed to find out the cause of his tears, and to soothe his pain. When I asked what was wrong, he answered,
” I miss California. I miss all of the places that we went. I want to go there again and again.”
We talked and cuddled. We talked of our favorite ride at Knott’s and Disney. We talked of ghosts at the QE II, and the fun we had at Huntington Beach. He also told me about the fairies that lived in the castle that he could look at whenever he wanted. He seemed to be happier to have talked about our fabulous trip. He was content to be home again. He just hated that it couldn’t last longer. As I kissed him goodnight he told me,
“Don’t worry, Mom. I will sleep now. I can always go back and visit the fairy castle and California any time I want. I can see it in my wisheye.”
I love how this child can go back whenever. It’s a great thing we adults always forget.
Thanks
Wisheye. Kids have the most wonderful ways of saying the perfect thing. Enjoyed your story.
Thanks, so true about children 😉
“Wisheye” should be the title of a book! Lovely practice.
Thanks 😉
It such a nice Story, I enjoyed it
Thanks. It means a lot that you enjoyed it.
This really happened though I’m not sure of the exact words.
The butter-colored leaves were piling high as the rake scrapped across the lawn. The grinning face of my neighbor’s four year old son appeared at the gate.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Raking the leaves.”
“Why?”
Ah, that typical kid question. “The grass needs to breathe.”
“Why?”
“Plants need air, water, and soil to grow.”
“Why?”
“You need air and water and food to grow. Plants are like you.” How would we get away from why? Idea! “Would you like to help? When we get a really big pile we can jump in it.”
“Yah.”
I pointed to my other rake and we worked together.
“This is hard.”
“You’re right.”
“Your husband should help us.” Mike looked hopeful.
“Sorry, I don’t have a husband.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t found anyone.”
“You should get one.”
“Where would I find one?”
Mike’s eyebrows pulled together and his eyes squinted. “You need to look at the husband catalog.”
“Where will I find that?”
After some thought he said it came from Green Bay.
“How do I order one?”
“Oh, you can call them and they’ll send one to you.”
“Do I have to pay?”
“You can use a credit card.”
“So how does he get here?”
“He comes in a big box.”
“What if I don’t like him?”
“You can send him back.”
By now the leaves were over Mike’s waist. “I think it’s time for a jump break. We’ll put our rakes over here so we don’t get hurt.”
We stood next to the leaves. I grabbed Mike’s hand. “One, two, three.”
The leaves decorated our hair. We spit them out of our mouths. And giggled.
“Let’s do it again.” Mike trudged to the edge of our pile.
This made me smile :)))
This is fabulous! I love the strange things children’s minds invent. And I need me one of them catalogs….
“Did my fishies go to Heaven, Mommy?”
“Umm, well, I think they probably went to a giant fishbowl in the sky, dear.”
“I hope they’re happy there. I don’t think there could be any yucky green stuff in the water there. And maybe they’ll have wings. Do you think they could fly, Mommy?”
“Maybe, honey, maybe. Now get into bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed. It’s still bright outside. The fairies haven’t come out yet.”
“Oh, they haven’t? What do you think a fairy looks like?”
“I don’t ‘think,’ Mommy. I’ve seen them. They’re the little lights that fly over the stream in the back garden. Haven’t you seen them?”
“Well, we call those fireflies. They’re not really fairies, you know.”
“But they are! I can see them talking to each other. And haven’t you heard them singing? They’re so loud I can hear them through the window when I wake up in the night.”
“You hear the frogs, dear, the frogs down by the pond.”
“No, it’s fairies! And they can only come out at night because parents don’t believe in them. If I could go out at night I could play with them. Oooh, I could dress them up in tiny dresses and make hats for them out of acorns, and then we would dance and sing and play in the stream, and the moon would see us having so much fun that it would get out of the water and play with us too.”
“That’s very sweet, dear, but you know that the moon doesn’t live up in the water. It’s in the sky, see?”
“That’s where you think it is. Really it’s just pretending. Real moons live in water, but you can’t touch them because they’ve sunk so deep. I’ll bet fairies can touch them. They could dive right to the bottom of our stream and pick up the moon and lift it out–and then the whole garden would light up and there’d be no shadows and we could dance until the sun came up. Could we hang the moon from our tree, Mama?”
“I’m afraid the branch would break.”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s a very strong branch. Remember we tied a swing to it? And Harvey broke it but that wasn’t the tree’s fault. He was swinging too hard. We could hang up the moon, just like that.”
“But you’re not going dancing with the fairies, remember? You’re going to sleep. There is school in the morning.”
“Do you think fairies go to school?”
“I imagine they would have to. Where do you think they learn to read and write?”
“Silly! Fairies don’t read and write. They just sing and everyone knows what they mean. Can you hear them? Can you hear them singing?”
“No, dear. All I hear are the frogs down by the pond, and all I see are a few fireflies in the shadows.”
“Why can I see them and you can’t?”
“Maybe it’s because your head isn’t filled with stocks and shares and potlucks and counseling and degrees and debt just yet. I don’t have room for fairies anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy. I wish we could both dance with the fairies.”
“So do I. Now get in bed, or you’ll never get up in time for breakfast tomorrow.”
I like the child’s stubborn insistence in her beliefs. The moon under water was a great image.
Thank you, AL 🙂
They say little children children see things that are hidden from adults.
a very good story, I like children, we naturally
My feet slap the cool water as I sprint the length of the board. I curl my hands into fists and hold them taught at my sides. My forehead wrinkles as I concentrate on the pool of blue at the end of the board.
As my toes feel the edge of the board I bend my knees, pushing down then springing up, raising my hands high above my head. I tuck my knees to my chest and float off the edge of the board, high into the sky. Just before impact I straighten my body, toes pointing into the water, fingers into the sky. I slice through the water with perfect precision. Barely a drop of water splashes as I slice through the water. I float to the bottom, then push my arms up and away from my side and pull myself back up to the top. My face breaks the surface, and I swiftly inhale and steel a glance at the judge. A perfect 10. I pump my fist in the air.
I pull myself from the 18 inches of water in our backyard pool, and my sister meets me with a towel, smiling ear to ear.
“You did it! A perfect score.” she squealed.
I look over at my brother, the scorekeeper, and he is holding up cardboard pieces with the numbers one and zero in black marker drawn on one side. A 10.
We played ‘Olympics’ over and over throughout the summer. I was the gold medalist in the female diving competition. My brother James took the bronze medal in the floor routine in gymnastics. He tumbled across the yard that summer, perfecting the tuck and roll maneuver and even adding a slightly awkward cartwheel at the end of his routine before sticking it with his feet planted firmly on the dry brown grass.
Little sister Janie was too young to compete that summer, but she became the crowd and filled our ears with cheers of encouragement and shrieks of congratulations.
At night after our baths we would munch on freshly popped popcorn and sip orange Kool Aid from small paper cups as we colored paper disks gold, silver, and bronze for the next day’s competition and stapled them to red, white, and blue ribbons, getting ready for another day of fierce competition.
the children with their innate curiosity are full of creativity and as they grow older they loose this skill. we need to examine what is their in them which make them so creative. i think the freshness and uncorrupted mind devoid of burden of any previous experience make them so. it is quality of my mind which we loose as we grow older. the education and parental pressure and other factors gradually takes away the creativity in them and they are forced to become one among us.
This happened just this morning 🙂
***
I sit at the table, eating my bowl of Weetabix Minis. My little brother hops his spoon over to mine. “Hello, what’s your name?” he says, lowering his 3-year old voice as deep as it will go.
My spoon stops feeding me long enough to look at his. “Eating.”
Not understanding, his spoon repeats the question. “What’s your name?”
This time, I drop the fake voice and shake my head. “I’m trying to eat.”
His spoon hops back over to his bowl. “I’m Jack, the front-loader.” The trusty spoon begins excavating the table, driving forwards and backwards.
“Why don’t you let Jack shovel those Rice Krispies into your mouth?”
He likes that idea. Rumbling, Jack shovels up a spoonful of cereal. “These are rocks.” Little brother makes a big deal of delivering the mound of rocks to his mouth and crunching it up.
With Jack’s help, he makes quick work of his breakfast.