What if I had super powers, could fly, and bullets would bounce off of me? What if I solved crimes that stumped the police? What if I had a lavish expense account, stayed at the top hotels, had a lot of hot sex, and a license to kill? What if I was on a spaceship full of people who traveled faster than light and every week I encountered a new civilization and boldly went where no one had gone before?
What if zombies lived next door? What if I dated a vampire who was “safe?” What if my boyfriend changed into something unspeakable once a month (under the full moon)—might he say the same of me?
What if I had a different husband—maybe a hubby upgrade? He’d have no flaws, be totally attentive, totally handsome and **** like a stallion?
Where do all these ideas come from? What is the need that is being filled?
When I write, I give these needs a sort of life. I populate a universe with people who become real, at least to me. Other people come into my world to share my fantasy and maybe their needs are also fulfilled—just go to a Star Trek convention if you don’t believe me—and if not that, then maybe a movie theater.
Is all the world a stage? Bill said so in his play, As You Like It. If I strut and fret in my life, at least I can dress it up in my fantasy with interesting characters facing tough situations and then watch them handle it, or not.
What if? What if? What if?