When I grow up, I want to be a storyteller

At a pre-COVID party, a stranger asked that conversational opener. ‘So... What do you do?’

I smiled and thought about the worlds I’d created: the rivers, oceans, continents, islands, mountains, forests, jungles, all types of flora and fauna. I populated it with tribes of people, customs, culture, history, and lore. Then sat back like a truly capricious Greek god and played with my creation.

I brought them joy and pain, gifted life and death, recorded their victories and defeats.

I watched characters grow, evolve, and change. At times they surprised me, disgusted me, entertained me, made me cry, and cheer and fall silent in wonder. At times, existing in the fantasy was more enjoyable than reality, on par with slipping into my favorite MMO.

Hours disappeared.

Dawn rose, and still, I would write, exploring and learning, developing and growing. I sacrificed my life and time to them, and they always gave back.

So how did I answer him?

Feanus the Trickster whispered in my ear.

‘I put holes in people and people in holes.’

I didn’t feel the need to add that most of it took place in my head and seeped through my fingers onto typed pages.

He looked at me, a little uncertain if he should laugh or flee.