When I was a little girl, I read a lot. I mean, A LOT. I read every book in my parent's library - multiple times. I read the "A" encyclopedia dozens of times - because that was the only volume we had. I practically lived in the school library. My grandmother was an elementary school teacher and I remember spending many hot, sticky summer days in her cool basement, reading books from her bookshelves. Maybe that's I walked around with a narrator.
My narrator lived in my head, and gave me a play-by-play of everything going on. When I walked through the kitchen, the narrator explained that "she glided effortlessly across the cool linoleum, her eyes flitting around the sunbeams slanting in through the southern window." It made life a lot more interesting to have a narrator, I'll tell you that.
My narrator also told me that one day, when I was walking around singing, a talent scout would hear me, marvel at my pure, clear voice, and make me a star. I don't remember that actually happening, though I imagined it many times. Maybe my narrator was better at telling stories than predicting the future.
As I think about picking up my writing here, I wonder what happened to my narrator. She's gone. Maybe my life is interesting enough? No, I doubt it. Maybe I just don't listen to her, or maybe I haven't listened for so long that she doesn't bother saying anything anymore.
I think I'd better find her, or get myself a new one. I need that spark of imagination as I go through my days.