There was a time when I wished that all the wonderful books I read when I was a child were written by me. Lands of never ending wonderment, of danger that a child can conquer, of rainbows and roses and funny rabbits that sing. Lands of dragons and unicorns and sailing ships that travel far over the sea to landscapes I could only hope to find.
Why did I wish they were written by me?
Because I had owned the worlds they took me to. They were mine. I found them in my secret place. I ran to them when I was sad. And because I wanted to change them and move them around and make space for my footprints.
You can imagine how happy I was when I realized I too have the ability to create the world of make believe. That I can open a door for someone else and wave at them, smile and whisper, “Hey…look what I found, come on in!”