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The mind is a marvelous mystery. I speak of the mind, not the brain which is another, different mystery—as is the relationship of the two. It is with the mind that we create and imagine. The mind makes up stories about imaginary people in imaginary worlds doing imaginary things. The mind fantasizes.

Now fantasize is a tricky word, for there are different kinds of fantasies. Some we may call good, some bad. Those words as I use them have nothing to do with literary merit, originality, or scope of vision. They have to do rather with the subject of the fantasy. A good fantasy presents the audience with visions of worlds out there, open to public view. Narnia, Middle Earth, Perelandra, Prydain, Hogwarts—the list never ends of visions of other worlds. The maker of the good fantasy stands by our side, points out and says, “look”, but the maker has no role in good fantasies. The playwright is not on the stage. We do not find Lewis, Tolkien, or Rowling in their imaginary worlds. They write fantasies, but they are not in them.

Another kind of fantasy, however, is about the maker. I will call these bad fantasies. These are private fantasies. They are in our minds by us and about us. We are our own audience. We look at ourselves with admiration. Maybe even applaud once in awhile. Whatever the scene or action, it is ‘Look at me.’ It can be momentary, a recurrent daydream, or a lasting delusion, but essentially it is “look at me and be impressed.” Think awhile. Ever imagine yourself being admired? Praised? Acclaimed? It is risky. I don’t think self-fantasies can be avoided, but they should not be encouraged.