P. C. Grant
As kids, my brother and I created stories about beings from fantastical worlds with extraordinary powers. For us, running around the house was time traveling at light speed from one dimension to another. Leaping across the space between our twin beds, we surfed intergalactic wormholes connecting planets in far-off galaxies. Our made up stories were spontaneous and ongoing, like a cosmic soap opera. Each new episode absorbed us for hours, as though they were real and the world of our New Orleans neighborhood was not. We'd launch into an imaginary adventure anytime or anywhere—late at night after our parents prayed with us and shut off the lights thinking we were asleep, or after we'd seen a cool movie, or even during long trips in the car. Occasionally my sister would join us, but she'd always exit once the storylines called for an epic battle. She was too girly for our fight scenes. Sometimes my parents would overhear us spinning our action-packed sci-fi tales. I just knew they thought we were insane, though they never said so or stopped us. I think they enjoyed listening to our make-believe adventures and reminiscing about when they had their own unique tales to tell, full of amazing characters and fantastic places I'd never dreamt of. Yet for my brother and me there was always a hero, a great love, and an epic rescue that required a tremendous sacrifice. I was captivated by the idea that our youthful desire to create stories might be motivated by something or someone beyond ourselves. Like a super AUTHOR who compelled not just our stories, but maybe every tale ever told.