H.G. Wells was my wise uncle.
Edgar Allen Poe was the batwinged cousin we kept in the back attic room.
Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers were my brothers and friends.
There you have my ancestry.
Adding, of course, the fact that in all probability, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, author of Frankenstein, was my mother.
— Ray Bradbury, introduction, S is for Space, Dec. 1, 1965
Hey, it’s me. At least, I almost recognize me, sitting cross-legged on the bed, or sprawled there on one elbow, The Great Comic Book Heroes flipped open and a piece of paper and a piece of paper sitting on the book like it was a pad of paper and not a treasure trove of fairy tales.
I am writing a song or drawing a comic book or composing a poem that I will type up and staple together in groups of 12 – a poetry album, because record albums generally had 12 songs.
Other boys spent a great deal of time walking and climbing and running through woods and fields or streets and parks, but I was content to sit on the bed and create new worlds and new songs.
Now here I am quite a few years later, in an easy chair, book full of empty pages propped in my lap with a “four” leg cross, dreaming of new worlds and new songs and poems. Should I have chased after that boy into fields of novels and popular songs, or was it enough to dive into the “real” world of journalism and write short stories about real life every day, telling the “what” of what happened and letting others surmise the “why”?
I have come late to this party, after sitting outside listening to the music and the laughter for so long, but it does not feel like too late. At least it feels like fun to glide the pen over the page not quite sure what next will flow.
Inside every adult-type person is a little boy or girl who embarked on a series of adventures. There were twists and turns, and some lived happily ever after but brushed by sadness along the way, and others were miserable but had moments of unbelievable happiness from time to time.
And today, today those little girls and boys are still alive, transformed like caterpillars through chrysalis to butterfly.
Do butterflies dream of a time when they crawled the earth and explored leaves? No doubt, while flying farther and higher than even their childhood dreams could fathom. Imagine!