Just My Imagination
Cut, paste and play: Erin Madigan White builds a collage for the future.
One brief musing about storytelling per day (or, more likely, as frequently as I can muster).
March 12, 2026
Today marks a first. I’ve been wanting to make sure other interesting voices about storytelling are heard in this space, not just me. So I turn over the wheel today to the talented Erin Madigan White, my former colleague whom I had the pleasure of working with for several years (and sharing unparalleled bún chá with during a 2015 work trip across Vietnam).
When Erin approached me with this idea — a cross of storytelling memoir and parental memoir — I jumped at the chance. Particularly since it was about the notion of collage, which intrigues me as a method of storytelling — particularly in a fragmented remix culture in which we now live.
THE BOX HAD been sitting in a dark corner of my basement for a decade, wedged between a window air-conditioning unit and a cat carrier. It was blanketed in dust and bulged at the sides.
At some point, I’d Sharpied KIDS ART across the top in all caps, like the inscription on a gravestone. Might as well have said, RIP.
I didn’t want all those memories to be buried forever. Like so many parents, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. But also, what was I supposed to DO with it all?
So over winter break, I decided to make good on an idea that had been rattling around in my head. I dragged the box out of the corner, dumped its contents on the floor, and started sorting.
The mixed-media mountain stood as tall as my knees. There were toddler scribbles and rudimentary drawings of trucks. There were grinning people with Crayola-blue eyes and outsize eyelashes. Early writing: Loopy cursive and letter Es with so many bristles they resembled the head of a toothbrush.
There were football guys and cat-unicorns, soccer guys and unicorn-cats. Castles. Houses. Airplanes. Dragonflies. Flowers. Geometric patterns. There were acrylic paintings, pencil drawings, and self-portraits made from felt, sandpaper and yarn. There were “sculptures” made from sticks, and a 3-D papier-mâché beehive. Each creation told a tiny story of who each of my three children had been, and a prologue to who they’ve become.
I asked my kids for their blessing, grabbed a pair of scissors and started to cut.
MY 9-YEAR-OLD wanted to help. She took a pink-and-purple painting she’d made in PreK and chopped it into a dozen free-form shapes. Together, we cut and tore, making piles of patterns and color.
After a couple hours, she abandoned the task, but I fell into a deep creative flow. I lost all sense of time and obligation. My teenagers drifted in and out, sharing their strongly-held opinions about what pieces of their work should be included and lobbying for equal representation.
We never figured out a place for the beehive.
I arranged it all on a 30x40 Canvas from Michael’s, secured each piece with glue, then lacquered it with several coats of Mod Podge.
When I emerged from the basement, it was dark outside. I had rubber cement and bits of paper stuck on my skin and in my hair. My fingers were inky. There was glitter on my eyebrow. My back and knees ached from hunching over on the floor. My hands were cramped from holding the scissors. I felt alive.
In his new book entitled “What Art Does,” music producer and composer Brian Eno writes this: “Play is how children learn. Art is how adults play.”
I PLAYED HARD that day. The collage that resulted is bold, colorful, and somewhat chaotic. It makes me smile as widely as I am in the portrait my once-preschooler drew of me. It’s also a reminder that writing is art, too. And if art is how adults play…
What happens when writers lose ourselves in the act of creation, with such abandon that we don’t worry about blobs, or straight edges, or perfection? What results if we move this bit here or throw that bit there? When we mess around with language, break sentences apart, and create something new? If we allow ourselves to be bold, colorful, and chaotic?
I see this playfulness in action when I teach creative writing to kids. It’s a pleasure to witness their imaginations at work, untethered if only for an hour, from screens or expectations. It’s a joy to hear about their monsters and heroines, or magical pets named “Flame.” About the sloth who attends “Speed Academy” or the witch who turns everyone to butter. (Her name was Margerie, like margerine, get it?)
What would happen if I approached my own work-in-progress with that same spirit, that part I’ve been stuck on and ruminating over for months? Or the manuscript that’s been buried in my desk drawer–the first one I ever wrote “THE END” on, but might as well say RIP. What if I cut up all the pages and re-arranged the lines like magnetic poetry? What if I abandon the plot, stuff my inner critic into a box and shove it in the basement of my mind, and just let my writer self play?
I’m not sure, but I’ll keep trying.
My husband built a frame for the collage, and we hung it over our kitchen table: A delightful, perfectly-imperfect family heirloom. Now, when I sit down to write there early mornings, I’m reminded that there is power in playing on the page. Maybe it’s the way to unlock the art of the story I’m trying to tell – and the heart of it, too.
Erin Madigan White has worked at The Associated Press, TIME and Fortune, and holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She teaches creative writing for kids at The Writers Circle and is working on a middle-grade novel. She lives with her family in Montclair, NJ.
Text ©2026, Erin Madigan White
And now, the Temptations.
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Terrific post, Erin! And I love the collage!