Confessions of an “Active Imagination”: How Storytelling Became My Superpower

I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember.

Not journaling. Not “dear diary.” No, no. Full-scale, dramatic, emotionally riveting, possibly suspiciously embellished storytelling.

“Active imagination,” they called it.

“Lying,” my mother called it.

In fairness, I can see her point. If a child comes home from school and claims she single-handedly rescued a flock of endangered geese while befriending a mysterious old woman who may or may not have been a witch… well… questions will be asked.

But give me this: those stories had structure.

They had pacing.

They had emotional arcs.

Honestly, they deserved better editorial support.

My favorite assignment every single year was the classic: What I Did This Summer.

Other kids wrote half a page about popsicles and sunburns. I turned in seven pages without taking a breath. Characters were introduced. Plot twists unfolded. There may have been a subplot involving a dramatic betrayal at a lemonade stand.

Looking back, it wasn’t homework. It was training.

Because stories weren’t just something I made up—they were something I lived inside.

And that became especially true later on.

When life got a little harder. When I was bullied. When the real world felt… less than kind.

That’s when the stories became more than entertainment. They became refuge.

I spent a lot of time in the library—not in a quiet, studious way, but in a full-body, soul-deep escape. Books weren’t just pages. They were doorways. And writing? Writing was the moment I realized I didn’t have to wait for someone else to open the door.

I could build my own.

And I did.

I built entire worlds where things made sense. Where mysteries could be solved. Where justice showed up, eventually, even if it took a few twists and turns (and possibly a suspiciously charming suspect or two).

Fast forward to now, and here’s the funny thing.

Of all the things involved in being a full-time author—and there are many, let me tell you—the writing itself is still the most fun.

Not the emails.

Not the marketing.

Not the moments where technology decides it has its own personality and it is not a friendly one.

No.

The magic is in the making up.

It’s in those long walks with Blueberry, my Papillon and part-time creative director, where I’m muttering to myself about plot points while she pretends not to be associated with me.

It’s in that moment when a character does something unexpected and suddenly the whole story shifts.

It’s in asking why—over and over again—until the threads connect and something deeper reveals itself.

It’s in realizing that, piece by piece, you are creating an entire world out of nothing.

A world with its own rules.

Its own secrets.

Its own heartbeat.

And yes, in that world…

I have all the power.

Conceited?

Oh, absolutely.

But also?

Completely, ridiculously, joyfully fun.

Because here’s the truth I’ve come to understand.

That “active imagination” people raised their eyebrows at?

That thing that didn’t quite fit into neat little boxes?

That instinct to stretch a story just a little further, to add one more twist, one more spark of magic?

That wasn’t something to grow out of.

It was something to grow into.

And now, as a cozy mystery author—creating stories filled with secrets, small-town charm, a touch of the paranormal, and the kind of characters you want to sit down and have tea with—I get to live in that space every single day.

I get to ask “what if?” and actually follow the answer.

I get to take all those years of imagining and turn them into something real enough for someone else to step into.

And if that’s not a little bit magical…

Well.

I’ll happily make up a better ending.