I’ve always been a daydreamer. Even as a child, while teachers spoke about fractions or geography, my mind would drift somewhere else, to imagined worlds, invented people, stories that played out like little films behind my eyes. My school reports often carried the same gentle reprimand: “Myranda tends to daydream and lose focus.” One teacher marveled at my ability to distract not only others, but myself. What they didn’t realize was that I wasn’t unfocused at all. I was busy writing stories in my head.
My mother shared this quiet gift of observation with me. We were both people-watchers, and bother pondered the what-ifs in life. The kind of people who could sit in a café or restaurant and find entire lives unfolding at the next table. A man tapping his fork nervously might be waiting for someone he hadn’t seen in years. The woman glancing at her watch might be rehearsing a difficult conversation. Together we’d invent their backstories, spinning ordinary moments into possibilities. Those little acts of imagination were the seeds of storytelling, an exercise in empathy, curiosity, and creativity that felt as natural as breathing.
I used to write stories from a young age, and Mom was an avid reader, praising my storytelling (though it was weak at the time) and encouraging sequels.
At the time, I didn’t call it writing. I just called it thinking too much. According to my husband, I’m still guilty of that. Stories would bubble up uninvited when I was on the bus, at work, or walking the dog. Sometimes they were simple what-ifs: What if that couple at the next table were spies? What if the barista was in love with the regular who never noticed? Other times they were entire scenes, dialogue, emotion, tension, that demanded to be written down before they slipped away. Eventually, I stopped trying to quiet the noise in my head and started giving it shape on the page.
Writing became my release. My day job, though fulfilling in many ways, is governed by strict conventions: structure, clarity, precision. There’s little room for creative detours or emotional experimentation. The boundaries are firm, the outcomes measurable. I’ve always respected that discipline, but a part of me longed for the opposite: for words that could wander, bend, and surprise me. Writing fiction gave me permission to do exactly that. It became the place where I could let language breathe and feelings take up space.
In those early years, I didn’t write with an audience in mind. I wrote to see what would happen if I let the story lead. Sometimes it started with a single line of dialogue that popped into my head while driving. Sometimes it began with a mood, the ache of nostalgia, the pulse of jealousy, the quiet magic of two people meeting for the first time. I wrote about love and loss, betrayal and redemption, about ordinary people trying to make sense of extraordinary moments. I discovered that when I was writing, the world outside faded away. The chatter of daily life softened. It was just me and the story, building something together.
What surprised me most was how writing changed the way I saw people. The daydreamer in me became more observant, more compassionate. Every stranger carried a potential story, every fleeting expression hinted at a secret. Writing taught me that everyone is the main character in their own life: messy, flawed, hopeful, scared. It reminded me that imagination isn’t just about escape. It’s also about understanding. The more I wrote, the more I realized that storytelling isn’t separate from real life. It’s a mirror that helps us make sense of it.
Of course, not all stories come easily. There are days when the words feel heavy, when self-doubt whispers that none of it matters. But then I remember that little girl in class, staring out the window, spinning invisible worlds while the teacher called her name. She wasn’t lazy or distracted. She was training to see, to notice the details others missed, to wonder why people do what they do. Writing is my way of honoring her, of giving her those lost hours back in the form of stories.
People sometimes ask if writing is a hobby or an escape. It’s both, and it’s more. It’s how I process the world. It’s where I turn when logic and order can’t explain the things I feel. It’s the conversation I have with myself when I can’t find the right words to say aloud. Writing lets me explore every what if that flickers across my mind, safely, quietly, and with purpose.
In a world that rewards productivity and structure, daydreaming can seem like a flaw. But I’ve learned that imagination is not the opposite of discipline; it’s the spark that makes discipline worthwhile. My daydreams have become blueprints, and my writing has become the bridge between the world I live in and the one I imagine. It’s a constant reminder that creativity doesn’t need permission. It only needs space.
So yes, I’m still a daydreamer. I still catch myself zoning out in cafés, inventing stories about strangers. I still get lost in the swirl of what might be. But now, instead of snapping myself back to reality, I take notes. Because every daydream might be the start of a story worth telling. And if that makes me a little distracted from the everyday world, I’m okay with that because it means I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. I just wish my mom was here to read it, and to have her quiet patience with my constant what-if questions rewarded.
