Imaginary Friends

I went to the zoo with Lord Byron once. I was standing there, looking through the glass to see polar bears swimming under water when I suddenly realized he was next to me, entranced as much by the window as the world it looked in on. He marvelled a while at the powerful beasts, familiar in many ways but at the same time so different from the old black bear he had kept as a pet. Lost in thought, the poet seemed to contemplate the two sides of the bear: one, serene, free and natural; the other, caged and dangerous. A soft sigh was the only hint of his melancholy before the wonder of it all overtook him again.

My companion had seen zoos before. He had kept quite a menagerie himself at different stages of his life, even travelling with a small flock of geese in his carriage for a time. But this modern zoo was so unlike the zoos of his time. There were no bars, no small cramped cages. The animals here were well-tended, given room to roam, and had the companionship of others of their kind. I could tell he approved as we strolled from one exhibit to the next. He was struck with the variety of creatures there and stopped to read every plaque describing their habitats and interesting facts. His mind wandered to the adventure of exploring those far-off lands. We spoke of his travels in Switzerland, Italy and Greece and of the difficulties of learning to speak Turkish. I, in turn, told him of my own experience in Japan, poking around in the hills behind my temporary home.

From time to time through the day, he would stop to reminisce about the animals he'd kept, the old bear, the dog he'd loved, or the squirrels his daughter delighted in feeding in their Venice home. He smiled at the innocent joy he saw reflected in the faces of children who gazed at the exhibits alongside him, but there were hints of sadness in his manner at the same time.

I lost him somewhere on the way home, though he was pretty impressed by the car ride for a while. The magic had somehow broken in the return. I know the visitation wasn't real, but for one afternoon, it was real enough - a miraculous and impossible encounter and a chance to see my world through different eyes.

It certainly wasn't my first flight of imagination, but I have to admit, it's never been like me to daydream of romantic poets. A recent reading of one of his biographies must have sparked the event. Byron's story is such a mixture of warring elements and emotions that the character it had built up in my mind was so much more than one-dimensional. I was aware of the many scandals and controversies that surrounded the man while he was alive and the theories and suspicions that had blossomed after his death. Of these, I have my own opinions, which will, of course, never be proven one way or the other. The one thing that cannot be denied is that he was a bold and engaging character. Part of me must have decided that it might be fun to play with this imaginary friend for a while, and that he might like a day at the zoo.

This post isn't really about Byron, however. It's about the act of conjuring him up. I think this must be part of what makes writers into good storytellers. I can't say for certain, since I'm only one writer, but I suspect the habit isn't mine alone. We try things on by daydreaming. We place characters into situations, different environments, and see what they say, think and do. The practice exercises the mental muscles we use when we write and helps us wrap our minds around the way the world works.

This isn't so different from the imaginary friends enjoyed by children. Nearly all children know their imaginary friends are self-generated fantasies, but they serve a real purpose. They allow actions and ideas to be taken outside ourselves so we can view them from another angle. The child can observe causes and consequences and explore personalities from a relatively safe point. As adults who imagine, we benefit similarly. The stories we tell and the characters we create are more realistic and more interesting because we have experimented with the elements already.

There are crowds of personalities hanging around in my head waiting to come out and play. People from my past, characters in books or movies, historical personalities and even characters from my own stories, are all poised to make their appearance. It's not at all unusual for me to imagine up a companion to share an experience with me, to offer a different perspective on the event. Although it's usually not a full day's visit, this cast of characters is prone to walk-ons at interesting moments.

So, I have sung songs at the campfire with Robin Hood and introduced Ben Franklin to the magic of Wikipedia. My grandmother often pops in when I'm in the middle of a craft project and offers her advice. All these momentary fancies feed future tales even if those tales don't deal with the imagined personalities directly.

The key is to keep your mind active, to think in ways that aren't always your own. How else do you find out that Genghis Khan likes his coffee with lots of sugar and a hefty dose of brandy? Where but in your imagination can you learn that Buddha's favorite carol is "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" though he likes the message in "Good King Wenceslas" better? It's the perfect workout for your storytelling muscles because as every child instinctively knows, sometimes the best way to understand the world is by playing with your imaginary friends.