I don’t believe that it’s often people find resemblance between themselves and great men in terms of personality defects. However, in this case I find the comparison quite pertinent. It’s been said of Da Vinci that he often grew dispassionate about some projects once he had fully planned them. This is one reason given for that fact that he didn’t complete many of his projects. His interest was simply drawn to other areas. I must admit that recently – more than ever – I have been identifying with this ‘flaw’ (for lack of a better term to describe it).
I was at a family gathering last night back in Ireland. It happened at my late grandmother’s house; the place where I spent some of the best days of my childhood. The nostalgia crept up on me instantly as I walked up to the farm. It was the place where my cousins I and first allowed our imaginations to run wild. They were the days when I created my worlds physically to run amok within. In some ways I suppose it was where my love of the imagination grew from. I don’t think that I’d be a writer today if I hadn’t spent my childhood making stories among those fields. A broken down tractor that became a multi-functional vehicle. A collection of trees that became the set of a million different dramas. The bales of hay that became a wrestling ring. However, when I began to think about writing about what I saw; I couldn’t.