Kate Flora: It will happen sometimes. I’ll be reading a book and suddenly a single sentence or two will leap out at me and stop me in my tracks. Sometimes it’s an insight into character that gives me ideas for my work in progress. Sometimes a description. Sometimes it will be something that is true for me as a writer in a way that I never thought about before. A few days ago, in a book called The Book of Dreams by Nina George, an editor is thinking about her local cafe, where she sometimes meets with aspiring authors, and she thinks this:

Those writers would describe their imaginary worlds to me, each hoping I would publish their manuscript and turn them into an author so that they might devote their lives to storytelling

We don’t talk about it enough, I think, that we are storytellers. Sometimes the magic of storytelling, of using our imaginations to create entire worlds we can invite readers into, gets lost in the mix of marketing, the ‘buy my book’ dance, anxiety over whether an editor will buy our book, buy our next book, whether we will have a good idea for the next book, and all the myriad things that surround the actual process of creation.

I’m still struck by an experience I had years ago, which I described in an earlier blog this way:

A few years ago, at one of those A-list parties where I was surrounded by some of those “famous” authors whose books are on all our shelves, I was working on an assignment to write a column for a magazine. The topic was “IMAGINATION,” so I asked several of the authors what came to mind when I said “imagination.” You’d think I’d said a dirty word. Some were silent. Some pondered as though I’d asked a trick question. A few offered uncertain answers, suggesting the realm of fancy and fantasy, or something dark or New Age. Not one responded as I’d expected, shrugging their shoulders and stating the obvious. “Imagination? Heck, we’re writers. Imagination is our principal tool.”

But the issue here is giving yourself permission to be a storyteller. What it feels like to set aside all of the other chores a writer had and become immersed in story. Allowing your imagination to soar so that you’re in that rare zone where story flows and your characters are real and you feel the sunshine of your face if it’s daytime in the story or sense the darkness and danger of being in the woods at night when there are bad people there too.

It’s kind of a special mindset, learning to identify oneself as a writer. I had probably published three books before I stopped filling the occupation blank on forms with lawyer and started writing author or writer instead. Until then, I hadn’t felt entitled to do that. Most of us suffer from some form of imposter syndrome, where we feel as though we’ve mistakenly been published, seen as an author, even read as an author. That sense that one day soon, someone will come along and burst the bubble. We’ll be revealed as the frauds we are.

Which gives rise to the question: why can’t we just enjoy this magical ability we have to create worlds and blow life into characters, and describe imaginary places that feel so real our readers can imagine being there. Characters so real our readers know them. Dialogue that sounds like the way real people talk. Why do we let so much other “stuff” get in the way of the pure joy of creation. Of achieving what, for many of us, what a life long dream–to be a writer.

So this week, as long as I can hold the rest of the “stuff” at bay, I am going to enjoy being a storyteller. I am going to finish the Joe Burgess book I’ve been working on for months and let myself get deeply immersed on those tense, climactic scenes. I am going to smile when I at last type “The End” of latest endeavor as a storyteller, and hope that those I end up telling the story to will feel some of the enchantment.

(author’s note: the photos aren’t on topic except me doing my “buy my book” dance. Otherwise, they’re some of the magic of my world outside the writing process)