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When I was a very young girl I loved telling stories. Sometimes my flair for telling stories led me down fantastic but confusing paths of truths and untruths.

These complex scenarios were most often played out in my child’s mind and eventually led me to blur the line between reality and imagination. Predictably, tripping that line resulted in some very unfortunate moments with teachers, friends and most disastrously, my parents.

Around third grade I recall telling my teacher I was unable to turn in my homework (which, by the way, I had completed) because it had flown off my dresser, out the window and been run over by a motorcyclist. I told her my homework laid in tattered pieces on the street. Naturally, she promptly contacted my parents.

A brief parent-teacher-sullen student conference led to an intractable difference of opinion between us and it boiled down to one core issue: Were my lies acts of deliberate deception or, childish embellishments masquerading as truths.

Nearly all transgressions which followed that ill-fated day were not met with patience or humor — just rants, raves, and threats. By the age of 9,  I was thoroughly prepared to write a dissertation on Aesop’s The boy who cried wolf, and Collodi’s Pinocchio. Thereafter I learned to keep my fanciful daydreaming strictly to my journals.

Twenty-eight years later I understand the quandary my parents faced and herewith is the unembellished truth at its core: I wasn’t telling stories.

I was becoming a story-teller.

January 5, 2010

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