Stories spur the imagination that describes life differently.

I remember sitting on the carpet in the little library at Tower Road School. Library Time was a big deal in grade four. Not only did a kid get to escape the times tables (never did learn sevens), but he got to kill a solid half-hour browsing through the curious world of books. This was an optimistic exercise where he would select a book with a cool-looking cover to take home and not read before not really doing the assigned book report. Alas, as with all things school, library hour came with a hook attached.

We had a rather wonderful librarian who would start library time reading a story before we pillaged her shelves. But one wintery Library Time she did something different. She read us a description of an amazing place, a setting with no plot.

Her voice wove magic as she told us of a long multi-colored tunnel, only high enough to crawl through that lit with flashes of light through gossamer walls as the unnamed explorer progressed. It led to, well, anywhere a kid could go. Then she told us to write down what happened.

So I wrote a story. What’s more, I liked writing it.

Now, dear reader, this would be the point in the epic author backstory where my teacher held my foolscap page in trembling hands and declared a masterpiece that would make Dickens hold his head in shame. Chubby cherubs would descend to attend me while the thick-eyebrowed thugs in my class forswore their bullying ways and embraced literature.

None of this happened but I did get a good mark on it. I think. I wasn’t paying attention after that.