I found this disclaimer in the introduction of the mystery novel, Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers:
For, however realistic the background, the novelist’s only native country is Cloud-Cuckooland, where they do but jest, poison in jest: no offense in the world.
I shall now return to my own version of CCL. I think the name of my world is different, but it hasn’t whispered itself to me yet.
Scientists are working on creating a warp drive.
“You don’t really understand this, do you?” my oldest son asks.
“Well, I understand that warp drive means you could go very, very fast in space.” See, I have watched enough Star Trek to understand.
“But, you don’t really understand.”
Okay, I can’t really wrap my brain around quantum thrusters, but I applaud the efforts. I understand the value of this speed and ease of travel in space.
I tell my son discussing imagery in the poetry of Emily Dickinson is a little like a warp drive. He sighs loudly.
This one is easy: A deeper understanding of a poem is like a journey through space.
When I was very young I thought I could be an airplane when I grew up. I’m not kidding. Even after flying in one, I still thought it was possible.
During my sixth year, when my family and I went on several trips across the country and to Ireland, I think it finally sunk in. I couldn’t be an airplane.
Yet, as a writer, I create worlds, characters, and stories. I transport readers to unique destinations and allow them to experience exciting adventures. Well, this is my goal . . .
See, I’m an airplane!
I need to create my own warp drive.