I wouldn't curse the writing bug on anyone, much less my own kid, but my daughter is perhaps a more consummate storyteller than I am. Not only that, it's generally speculative.
"Do you remember the blue dragonfly we saw yesterday at school?"
"Yeah." No, but I was distracted by the new, hot vice-principal.
"I was scared of it." Processing. Processing. She looks up at me through her dirty glasses. "Are dragonflies nice?"
"Yeah." No, they sting like the dickens, but only very occassionaly.
"That blue one was nice. I touched it and it licked me. And then I gave it some of my orange drink and it sucked it through its straw tongue. It thanked me and flew away. We're friends now. I bet it comes back tomorrow, and I'll give it a name. It can live in my room and go to school with me."
She flows from truth right into storytelling so seamlessly that I have to think hard about what is truth and what is not. Shit. A dragonfly drinking orange soda.
Stranger things have happened.