Reading Clever Books Makes Me The Writer's Equivalent of High

A few years ago I stopped wanting to be an author for one reason:  I realized I am not creative.  It was horrific, I assure you, because for twelve years of my life I had claimed as future profession something for which I was not genetically equipped to pursue.

Sad day.

And before anyone tells me I'm wrong, which they do, and which is silly because obvs, I am never wrong, here is my explanation.  Sure, I can write okay.  I can even do a bit of drawing and painting etc.  But are they ever original?  No.  I write about my life, not any awesome made up world or scenario.  Watch this:

Twelve year old Tommy jumped over the river and landed inside his grandmother's home, where a wolf with black horn-rimmed glasses was sipping tea and jamming on his amped up guitar.  Tommy was displeased.

That was my stream-of-consciousness attempt at creating a story.  I think I've read something like it before (except with weird inclusions of the depths of my psyche, apparently).

Also I can only draw and paint things that I look at and stare at and painstakingly copy.  When things come out of my head, they end up as squiggles.

SO.

The point of this is, I DO have an imagination.  Which is really a disappointment, because my idealization of reality is usually far and away more awesome than what really exists.  For example:  Abby played soccer this winter.  I went to one of her games because she said they play in a BLOWN UP STADIUM.

And let me just say, it IS a very cool stadium.  There are circular doors you walk through, and your ears pop, and from the outside it looks like a misshapen Epcot globe.

But that does not compare to my imagination.  The whole ride there I annoyed everyone in the car with questions like, "So can you push people into the wall since it wouldn't hurt them?  Like body check them?  Oh like SOCCER AND HOCKEY COMBINED?"  "I'm so sorry you're sick, Abby.  I hope you don't throw up while playing.  OH WAIT I DO HOPE YOU GET SICK!  Then your vomit would bounce off the floor and....I dunno, smack you in the face."  "If we bounce on our seats, will it undulate onto the field and make everyone fall down?"

Finally some Monahan said, "I think you're about to be very disappointed."

And I kind of was.  Like when before my first big trip to Dakar, when Liz and Kim told me about the wonders of Downtown.  Yeah, it was totally capitalized in my head.  The streets were shiny, and everything sparkled, and there was a very good chance that there was a castle levitating on the horizon.  I KNEW Dakar wouldn't be that....but a little part of me actually did.  And while I loved Dakar (and it's wonderfully American Casino grocery store), there were no shining castles.

I don't know what this all means.  I have a weird imagination, but no ability to translate it into a coherent art form?  Probably that means I will just be trapped in my own head, slowly going insane from all the nonsense that cannot get out of my brainspace.

Oh look.  More weird imaginings.  OR IS IT?