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Things that go Bump in the Forest

What scares you?

crazy tree

The Arch Tree
This unusual tree is one of the trees near the Billings Mansion in Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historic Park near Woodstock, Vermont. Copyright by WyoJones. All rights reserved. Used with permission.

I had a hard time coming up with a blog topic for today. I’ve been hip deep in the #GrandmaProject, which tends to shrink my world down to four dear, little faces. So, when I get stuck I browse the hub’s Flickr feed for inspiration. I’m not quite sure how it works, but the “idea” (we’ll see if it really is an idea) sometimes bubbles up out of the goo that is my brain, even before I find an image to go with it.

For whatever reason, this got me thinking about imagination, as both curse and blessing in my life and resulted in: Things that go. Bump in the forest. 

I am…a wimp. I see a picture of a mysterious path into a forest and I my imagination leaps up and claps its hands.

I see the same thing in real life? And I want to run back to the car and hope that the hubs will emerge from the hike alive and with all his limbs. Believe me when I say that by the time he does get back, I’ve imagined everything from bear attack to an alien encounter. When he takes really long, I’ve even planned his funeral. 

My imagination. 

A blessing when I’m writing books. 

Curse in my real life. 

My most embarrassing imagination #fail was years ago. I watched a scary movie with a friend. I don’t recall the name, but the creepy stalker worked on ther hunted heroine’s house and while he was fixing it, he created a maze hidden behind her walls, so he could watch her. Everywhere in her house. 

Now reality was:

1. No one had worked on our house.

2. Ever

3. I am boring to watch. 

But that did not stop my imagination going into a meltdown that night. Everywhere I looked I saw eyes. In the house. Outside the house. Eyes. Watching. Me. 

That’s when I realized that I need to be careful what I feed my imagination. I can scare myself walking down to check the mail. 

I am that sad. 

Do you scare yourself to death? If you don’t, how do you do that? Obviously, I need help.

Perilously yours,

Pauline

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