I tried rubbing the edge of my study table, whispering, "Appear, my lovely story. Appear!" It didn't. I tried this with the walls in my home, with trees in the park, and once even slyly tried rubbing the end of the shawl of a woman I didn't know at all. Nothing happened. No story appeared like a genie to enter my being and emerge as words tumbling into sentences and forming plots and intricate dialogues.