All the characters in my books are imagined, but all have a bit

Listen, children of creation and contemplation, to the words of Alice Hoffman, whose imagination breathes life into the unseen: “All the characters in my books are imagined, but all have a bit of who I am in them — much like the characters in your dreams are all formed by who you are.” Within this reflection lies a truth profound and eternal — that the act of creation, whether through art, writing, or even dreaming, is inseparable from the self that creates. Every vision, every character, every story bears the fingerprints of its maker.

Since the earliest ages, storytellers have been mirrors of their own souls. The bards of ancient Greece, the poets of the East, the chroniclers of kingdoms — all shaped their tales from the clay of their own experience, sorrow, and hope. Hoffman’s insight reminds us that creation is not an act of detachment, but of reflection. Even when an artist imagines entirely new worlds, the spirit that animates them comes from within. The artist cannot escape themselves; their essence weaves through every word, every color, every song.

Dreams, too, arise from this same well. In the quiet of night, the mind fashions characters, landscapes, and emotions that seem foreign but are wholly born of the dreamer. Each figure in a dream — the hero, the villain, the stranger, the beloved — is a fragment of the self, a projection of hidden thought or forgotten memory. So too, in the work of the artist, every character imagined is a reflection of the inner world. The writer’s fears and longings, their compassion and regret, find form in the beings they create.

Consider Mary Shelley, who gave the world Frankenstein. In her youth, she dreamed of life emerging from death, of a creator haunted by his own creation. Though the tale was cloaked in horror, it was born of her own grief, intellect, and yearning to understand the boundaries of human ambition. Her characters were not merely inventions but manifestations of her own questions — her inner dreamers. In this way, she, like Hoffman, revealed that art is the echo of the soul in narrative form.

Alice Hoffman’s words speak also to the universality of creation. Just as every person dreams, every person creates in some form — through thought, conversation, choice, or craft. Each act of imagination, whether painting or parenting, storytelling or problem-solving, reveals the mind of its maker. The more we understand ourselves, the more we understand the worlds we bring forth. And the more we honor our own complexity, the richer our creations become.

Yet this insight carries a deeper challenge: self-knowledge. For to create authentically, one must confront what lies within — the shadows and the light alike. The ancients taught that wisdom begins with the inscription at Delphi: Know thyself. Creation, too, begins there. To infuse our works with truth, we must look inward without fear, understanding that even our flaws and doubts can become the seeds of beauty when transmuted through imagination.

The lesson is timeless and practical. When you write, paint, teach, or dream, remember that what you create is not separate from you. Let your work be a dialogue between your inner and outer worlds. Observe your dreams, for they reveal the stories you tell yourself. Recognize that every creation, no matter how fantastical, carries your emotional signature — your essence made visible. Through this awareness, you will come to see art not as invention alone, but as revelation.

Finally, remember that creation, like dreaming, is an act of courage. Alice Hoffman’s reflection teaches us that to imagine is to reveal the self, to scatter pieces of one’s soul into form and narrative. Embrace that vulnerability. Let your art, your dreams, your deeds be reflections of who you truly are — not perfect, but honest, not detached, but deeply alive. For in doing so, you join the timeless lineage of creators who, through their imagined worlds, have helped humanity better understand the truth within itself.