Introduction:

My hand was upon the doorknob and I held my breath.  Slowly, it twisted and I shut my eyes for a moment. "Please, please, let me be anywhere but here, " I whispered.

With one quick and smooth move I yanked it and opened my eyes.  (Sigh), I was still at work in my ugly, blue uniform.  I was miserable; tired and frustrated with my life.  Forty-four and still single.  No children or grandchildren to entertain, no husband to cook or clean for; no purpose, no money.  For just that sliver of time I hoped with all my heart that I could step out of this world.  Much like Alice in her Wonderland or Lucy in Narnia.  Give me a hole in the tree where I might step into fairyland, a time machine or magical train.

Where was the flying unicorn to whisk me from this tedious and inglorious life?  Where was the adventure on the high seas with a treasure to find and pirates to escape?  I had no rainbow to climb over or wizard to follow.  No one sought me out and no knight in shining armor has ever come to my rescue. I imagined how it must have felt for other storytellers that have boring, sad, and ordinary lives.  I mean, what must it have been like to have been the one who wrote and passed on the tales, especially when there was no promise of gold at the end?  Did it bring hope to them and their listeners or did they become disillusioned like learning the truth of Santa Claus?

I have some really incredible tales and they're pretty good.  But I'm not the main character of the tale.  In fact, I'm actually not even in them.  I'm just a storyteller.  But in reality these stories are about all of us and I know for a fact that they are more than just stories.  They've been passed on from one generation to another, so maybe being just the storyteller is enough.  Because I've decided it's time that I take my role as a storyteller seriously.