I used to play with dolls as a child. I gather this is What Children Do. I used to stage grand extravaganzas, big budget, all action, non-stop thrills, conscripting all manner of household items. Those aren't stairs, that's a cliff and there is a heart-stopping clifftop rescue going on. That's not a mirror, it's a portal to another dimension. The lift has broken off the Sindy house and is swinging freely: cue Towering Infernoesque disaster movie. There were sagas that went on for weeks, if not months: the tangled on-off courtship of Barbie and Ken, the backstabbing world of the pop diva, the tragic little orphans in their garret.
Recently I spoke to a friend about this. She seemed taken aback. Didn't she used to play games like that? "No," she said, "I just used to brush their hair and change their clothes."
So:
Writers are born and not made.
Discuss.