Number 22 Appletree Crescent was a busy household on a Saturday morning. Imogens smaller brother would be in the back garden, playing around with his toy swords or guns as he acted out some kind of science fiction battle scene.
Her mother would be on the landing, running round after the tempermental four year old that did not want to get dressed.
Her father would be in the kitchen, supposedly trying to give his wife a day off from making breakfast. But the ingredients lay un touched on the chopping board and he sat at the table, his phone in hand as he talked to yet another business client.
And Imogen, she'd be in her bedroom, sitting at her computer desk. The laptop was open, it's keyboard calling out to be typed on. Yet Imogen just sat there, staring at the blank word document that was waiting to be filled with words and tell another story.
But Imogens mind was blank when it came to words. She could visualise the scene, hear the characters voices in her head. Yet the moment her fingers tapped against the smooth keyboard, the words didn't work together.
Imogen didn't know how to fix it.
So she emailed her friend, complaining of the frustration she was feeling and hoping that they'd have some suggestion for the writers block she was in.
Yet the response held little of the comfort she craved. So Imogen looked at the notebook she'd planned out the story in. Her eyes scanned the lined paper, reminding herself of the story and situations she knew by heart anyway. She mouth curved in small smile as she lost herself in the thoughts, excitement flew through her. It was going to be dramatic today, and she always loved writing dramatic scenes.
But all this waiting had left Imogen feeling anxious and when she sat herself up in the chair, placed her wrists on the body of the laptop, her stomach clenched tightly.
Nerves were getting the better of her.
Usually she'd try and coax herself out of it by reading a favourite book. But the way the words flowed so naturally when she sought the book out merely depressed her more.
Days passed and the situation didn't get any better.
Imogen found herself sitting in one of the cities many cafes with her friend a few days later. Although she'd cheered up considerably at the sight of her friend, she was still pained over not being able to write.
And Imogen didn't waste any time what so ever in explaining the misery she felt to her friend.
“Maybe you just need to experiment a little.”
Her friends suggestion threw Imogen off guard but she didn't voice it. Instead she watched as her friend unzipped her bag and rummaged around inside it. She pulled out a comic, and flipped to the back.
On the page was a comic script.
“Why don't you try writing a comic? I could draw it for you if you like.”
Imogen hadn't been into comics very much. She'd heard of them, and read a few of the usual Beano or Dandy comic strips over the years. But she wasn't repulsed by them.
So she tried it.
And grew to love it beyond any kind of prose story she'd been attempting to write beforehand.
Of course Imogen found herself looking at the comic she'd been dedicatedly writing in different ways as time went by. She couldn't help but imagine seeing it on book shop shelf.
Sometimes this bugged her. She hated making dreams for things that may not happen for fear of the disappointmentt, and Imogen found herself going through a similar bout of nerves that sheexperiencedd with the writers block.
But she soon got over it.
The excitement of making a comic had took over any doubts she may have had. Of course she had no idea what she was doing, but she was learnt over the years and found herself making the comic a lot better than she'd ever imagined it being to start with.
A considerably long time into the making of the comic (but also certainly no where near the end of it) the friends were on another coffee shop trip. They'd spent many more hours discussing through things that afternoon, and it was then that they concluded the comic was, very much a big experiment for them both.
Perhaps even “The big experiment of life.”
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