Creation

by

Anne Michael

“Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at least you create what you will.” That is the phrase for the month of January on the calendar that hangs in my kitchen near that piece of counter top where I write each day. Each month—a new phrase to motivate. 

I have read and pondered this saying for ten days now. Sometimes I think I understand it, but days like today, when nothing is as easy as I imagine it to be, I’m sure I do not. I wish it were only as easy to imagine a thing and it will become all that I think. The creativity should come with a well written set of directions to make it easier so that anyone can have the desired result for the things they imagine like cures for the croup, cancer, old age, dementia, or writing a note of sympathy. Just a bit of reading could cure the world of all ills. But there are no directions for making the things we imagine come true. It’s all hard work and trial and error.

I am reminded of a time many years ago when my children were small. Dollhouses made of wood that could be purchased in kits were in vogue, I decided that I would build that kind of dollhouse for my youngest daughter Melissa for Christmas that year. I imagined that the kit would go together easily, that it would turn out to be a miniature of Victorian splendor (much like a snap together plastic model car).

I started the project in the summer to give myself plenty of time since I worked two jobs at that point in my life to make ends meet. I was a single mom raising four children. I found a kit on sale that was just the right size for my petite little girl. It even came with furniture that required construction. I bought colonial blue paint for the house, brown for the roof and trim and furniture. I invested in a craft knife and a huge bottle of carpenter’s glue. I had saved bits of fabric for curtains and begged carpet and linoleum scraps from the flooring store and cut artwork from magazines to hang on the painted walls. I had all that was required save for the directions. They were not in the box. “How difficult could it be?” I asked myself,. After all, I had the picture on the front of the box to go by.

Every evening after the kids were in bed and the chores done, I would spread everything out on the dining room table and begin the laborious process of assembly.  

The basic structure went together reasonably well using cans and jars from the pantry for supports while the glue dried. Sometimes the problem was that it didn’t stay together because my “supports” were not the right height or it needed to be part of the next day’s meal, and I had nothing of a similar size. Glue had to be cut off and the framework reconstructed. So the summer went. Late into many nights I’d work without benefit of a set of directions (and no, the store didn’t have them) and the library had no helpful books on the subject. It wasn’t long before I was talking to myself and uttering expletives under my breath. Little did I realize that this would be the easy part, the basic structure. It also never occurred to me to paint or wallpaper the inside wall before construction started.

All the details came next.  The veritable multitude of tiny square and scalloped roof and siding shingles had to be cut with a razor blade out of the boards into which they were set for shipping, along with every piece of window moldings and sills, banisters, teeny steps for inside and out along with each piece of furniture. That alone took many hours. By that time there was a definite gap between my imagination and my will. Creating the stuff of my imagination took hard work and lots of it. How I longed for a set of directions! The store manager assured me he would request them from the manufacturer. The research librarian promised to keep searching for something that might help. And a visual inspection of the dollhouse made it painfully clear that I should not attempt to make my living as a carpenter.

The word “shit” flew from my mouth frequently. I didn’t worry about language; my kids were upstairs asleep. I had no idea that they could hear my every word through the heat ducts and that they would sneak peeks through the banister on the stairs to see what I was swearing about. It was a disaster. There was a huge chasm between imagination and creativity. I felt quite discouraged, and frequently wondered whether or not I should just scrap the whole thing.

One night in early November, Melissa appeared, wraithlike beside me, startling me and catching sight of the work in progress as I was painting the roof and trim. Rocking back and forth from her heels to her toes, hands clasped behind her back, and looking very earnest, she asked cheerfully, “Soooo, Mom, how is the shithouse coming along?” Then hopefully, “It’s for me, isn’t it?” All I could do was laugh and acknowledge that it was her Christmas gift. “It’s beautiful, Mama,” she exclaimed, her eyes alight with anticipation and pleasure. Then, as quietly as she appeared she slipped back up to bed. (So much for her surprise.)

The house, alas, never attained the stature of a delicate Victorian style showplace. Much of the detail had been left off.  In fact, it was rather plain on the outside. It turned out to be an ordinary blue house filled with tiny furniture that looked as though it came from Goodwill and a tiny family to occupy it. But the imagination of a nine-year-old created all the joy and beauty she could muster for the family she named the Little Family. It was a lot like our own.

It amazed me what a little imagination and a lot of work could accomplish, even without a set of directions to read. I may not achieve all I set out to do, but I cannot accomplish anything at all if I don’t at least attempt to create what I can see in my mind’s eye.  

Oh, and the store manager called me two days before Christmas. The manufacturer had sent new set of directions for me. They were written in Chinese.  


At age 10, Anne realized she was never going to get to be Miss America since reading a book was not an acceptable talent. So she went on to get a job and raise a family. Along the way, she fixed meals, picked up toys, helped with homework, and collected a drawer full of rejection slips for her “great American novel.” It was not all bad, however, since she ended up wallpapering a closet with them. She currently designs and creates greeting cards for her tiny company, The Frog Prints, LLC, and also works full-time as a Training Specialist. Anne is currently tethered to reality by a loving spouse, two dogs, one cat and the occasional hurricane that blows through Florida, although falling headlong and happily into a book is still her favorite “talent.” She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it