The world is made of stories. They whisper of themselves into our ears, give us the briefest of glimpses, a flicker of taste, and the gentlest of touches. They tell us lies which hint of something more. They fill the air, the earth, the waters. They are in the fire, in the light, and the darkness. They slip into dreams. They grow. They fade and die. They collide with each other and fragment and fuse. They merge and mate and spawn and mutate into new things, monstrous and wondrous. And always, they whisper to us the barest of clues about their doings.
As writers, our role is to listen to the whispers, to follow the clues, see past the lies, and to enunciate their truths to the world.