In sdn‘s journal folks are talking about their imaginary friends, or lack thereof.
I don’t think I’d known imaginary friends weren’t universal. I mean, I always knew ultimately that mine were invented, made up; but that didn’t seem an issue. Making them real, interacting with them as if they were real–that was my responsibility. And it didn’t matter whether my imaginary friends were clever or creative or original, but that they were mine, that I’d chosen to lay claim to them and invest energy in them.
Though of course I always hoped they would turn real-real, in the way I wanted (still want) the characters in the books I read to turn real.
I mean, it’s not like I’ve stopped looking for the passage through the wardrobe, or Mrs. Whatsit, or Auryn, or the right sort of magic and a day when the veil between worlds is thin. Being an adult is just my day job.
And the imaginary friends–as well of the characters I created for stories, later on–are still there. They’re mostly pretty quiet, keeping to their own lives, but they come when I need to or remember to call.