I love books. Obviously. But what I love more than books, are stories. It’s in my blood. My grandpa could weave a story better than anyone else. As a little kid, I’d love when he’d sit down, his brown eyes sparkling with mirth, and launch into a story of the time he threw fireworks in the river, or the time he won the island of Guam in a card game, or the day he met my grandmother by almost running her over.

The stories, of course, like all the best stories, had a hint of exaggeration, of larger than life details, but only to enhance the emotions of the already wonder-filled parts of life.

And I’d tell stories too. I’d spin little tales of days at school, retellings of books I’d read, adventures I’d had.  Once I learned to write, in grade school, and we were given prompts, I was ecstatic. A new avenue for me to tell my stories. Fantastic.

A week of prompts, focusing on our summer vacations. Day one, Packing for our Trip to Scotland. Day two. Arriving at Loch Ness. Day Three. Meeting Nessie. Day four, bringing Nessie home, letting him swim free in the Allegheny river.

Day five, a stern lecture from the teachers about things like “Lying” “Journals are Nonfiction” and other very boring things.

Truth doesn’t come naturally to me. Not because I’m malicious, but because I want to entertain. If you ask me, “What happened on your flight?” and I said, “Nothing, I slept the whole time,” Well, that’s boring. Can’t I paint a new tale, combining half-experienced moments from the past into one interesting story?

Well. No. That’s lying.

But, I can write stories.

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