I began creating fiction long before I ever started writing. When I was a child, I was obsessed with having a Barbie, mostly because my mother was strongly against it. She believed that if I played with Barbies I would grow up to be anorexic. I don’t know how long I begged, but finally she gave in.
Owning Barbies was my biggest creative outlet as a child. I have no clue what my little friends did with their Barbies, but I was always coming up with elaborate story lines for mine. I was really good at torturing Barbie. More often than not Barbie would end up dying in some tragic way. B and her friends would decide to climb the great mountain( my dresser) and once they reached the top a snow storm would come in and they’d be trapped. Starving, freezing, and resorting to cannibalism.
I was content to spend hours and hours in my room creating stories. I would work on making the perfect moment within a scene and it always had a soundtrack. I created sets out of shoe boxes and scraps of fabric. The underneath of the coffee table could be a mansion, or a dungeon, depending on my mood.
I remember one time Barbie and her friend were captured and forced to fight to the death like gladiators. B was devastated when she killed her friend. It had a very emotional score. I think my mother thought I was nuts. When I would have my friends come for sleep overs they usually just sat back and watched the show.
If you’re wondering, the answer is no. No, I don’t still have my Barbies. Although, in moments of intense writer’s block, I have thought of them with a slight twinge of sorrow, as if I were remembering close friends, long since dead.