Imaginary Attic (Part 1): Creative Foundations

As a kid, I was an avid explorer, perpetually drawn to the cluttered, dusty corners of the world where stories had taught me the most fantastic journeys began. From overgrown gardens and hidden crawlspaces, to wardrobes, wishing wells, and even the occasional sewer drain, I spent my early years braving cobwebs and shadows in search of something magical.

But growing up in a cookie-cutter neighborhood outside Chicago meant my quests for adventure often led to disappointment. Our home was a newer model — utterly unhistoric and unhaunted — with little more than fiberglass between the ceiling and the roof tiles. School was an unwelcome exercise in restraint, bound by uniforms and recitations, daily scoldings and weekly chapel.

Fortunately, we often visited friends and family back in the old neighborhood where I was born. There, the trees were old enough to hold forts and tire swings. The uncut grass grew tall enough to hide toads and tortoises, and long enough to braid daisy chains. It was there among the smoke of charcoal grills and the occasional glint of fireflies that I first found my niche.

Hidden treasure

One afternoon, an all-too-common rainstorm left us confined to one of the smaller houses on the street. The owner was a close friend of my mom's, a woman with a yellow bob and an easy smile that reminded me of store-bought lemonade (far sweeter than the watered-down stuff served in waxy paper cups each Sunday).

She had two kids around the same age as my sisters, so the selection of toys dropped off around Thomas the Tank Engine. And that made it easy enough to justify an innocent foray. I began quietly opening cabinets, drawers, and closets in the hope of finding... something.

Finally, in an unassuming nook, behind a rack of puffy snowsuits, I uncovered the impossible, yet undeniable knob of a hidden door.

And behind it, a dark stairwell.

The silence within was somatic. A bated breath between whispers from the ghosts almost certainly hovering overhead. Undisturbed yet waiting to be discovered.

I don't recall how long I lingered on the threshold. But I distinctly remember the thrill — not as a fear of falling into the unknown, nor a rush of anticipation, but as a gentle sense of belonging. Like a sinking stone finally coming to rest in the sediment. I was certain that I had finally discovered a concrete path to Narnia, a real-life Wonderland.

So I happily stepped into the shadows.

The stairs twisted up and around to the top floor, where a single light bulb swayed overhead. A quick tug illuminated an A-frame room utterly frozen in time. Orange shag carpet lay matted by decades of dust and bare feet. Floral wallpaper drooped from the angled walls, yellowed with age and the stale scent of tobacco. Racks of old clothes and wilted cardboard boxes lined the perimeter, overflowing with peculiar items: old train sets, empty perfume bottles, broken mirrors, and books. Stacks upon stacks of old books.

I spent the remainder of the rainy afternoon exploring the eclectic treasure trove. Though, owing to the unique way time tends to distort around both children and antiques, it's impossible to say for sure whether hours or days passed.

Eventually the woman who owned the home appeared with the other kids (and my worried parents) in tow. She explained that most of the items in the attic had been left there by previous owners over the years. We were welcome to explore, she said... so long as we agreed she could keep any gold doubloons we found.

From then on, my visits to the old neighborhood became visits to the attic. And while I never discovered any coded messages or magic keys among the relics, it was this unquenched desire that eventually drew me to writing and, more specifically, storytelling.

Rediscovering the attic

From those early days in Chicago through my young-adult years in the deserts of the Southwest, I carried stories with me wherever I went. When I didn’t have my nose in a book, I was conjuring my own adventures, discovering new ways to get lost along the way.

I didn’t immediately associate these habits with a desire to be a writer — only that I was relentless in my desire to see the world through a more interesting lens. It was only with the encouragement of various teachers over the years that I finally made the connection. And once I started writing, I was hooked.

Equally inspired by these influences and simultaneously convinced that I’d need a better way to pay the bills than writing alone, I went on to study education in college. In the classroom, I found permission to rekindle my love of children's literature and discovered just how powerful the structure of story could be when used as a teaching tool. But by night, my heart still belonged to the pen.

Nearing graduation, my (now) husband and I moved into the only home we could afford: a studio apartment where I quickly became reacquainted with all things cramped, cluttered, and dusty.

We were enormously proud of the place, but after the first few months, it became clear it wasn’t conducive to creativity. The six paces between the bed/couch and my desk/kitchen table didn’t provide much scope for the imagination, to say nothing of noisy neighbors and a nearby train.

There were no libraries or coffee houses, or any other such sanctuaries of solitude within walking distance. Even if there had been, most nights I was lucky to steal a few minutes between grading papers and lesson planning before the day’s caffeine finally wore off.

But despite the distractions and exhaustion, the drive to read... to write... to explore the imaginary remained.

One night, while staring at a blank page and longing for a quiet refuge to hide from the din of normalcy, I found myself drawn back to a vision of that colorful attic back in Chicago. The musty smell of tobacco, cedar, and shoe polish. The round, stained-glass window rippling with rain. And the seemingly endless collection of old books.

I held the scene in my mind until the rest of the world fell away. And what followed was a flurry of inspiration that, for the first time in months, allowed me to surpass my target word count.

The next night, I repeated the exercise, envisioning the attic in even greater detail. And little by little I began to reimagine it as my own. Near the window, I positioned a modest wooden desk, etched with fervent pen strokes and studded by a cushy wingback chair. Along the wall, I added bookshelves and an old grandfather clock. Over time, I replaced the matted orange rug beneath my feet with polished hardwood, leaving room for patches of dandelions to grow up through the cracks, and allowing the drooping floral wallpaper to transform into thick flowery vines.

Gradually, this pattern of visualization solidified as both a strategy and a safe haven. A way to overcome distractions, combat writer’s block, and unlock broader creativity.

Building from the ground up

While my roots as an educator keep me grounded in my passion for early literacy and lifelong learning, I’ve since had the privilege to pursue a career as a full-time writer. In both my personal and professional work, the three walls and a window which make up my “Imaginary Attic” have not not only come to serve as a strategy for entering the writing state of mind, but also the overall framework for my creative process.

The next few posts in this series will delve into each element of the Imaginary Attic in detail.

It should be preemptively acknowledged that every writing process is as unique as the writer. While there are aspects of this approach that may have broad applications, it’s not meant to serve as a rule book or instructional guide. Instead, these posts represent a singular process of self-analysis and discovery — a window into one writer’s continuous pursuit of an ever-changing craft.

My goal in reconstructing the Imaginary Attic on the page (or on screen) is to give form to the mental structures that help to fuel my creativity, drive consistent production, and silence the inner critic. If doing so can simultaneously help a few other writers, artists, or creators to illuminate their own imaginary realms... all the better.