The other day, I was answering a question on-line from a young reader who wanted to know why a certain thing in my story had happened. In my reply, I told her that she had an excellent question, that the story was vague on that point — but, I added, I would tell her my theory, and so I did.

It occurred to me that I’ve been answering questions that way for years, since the time other people began reading stories I’d written. I can remember a colleague twenty-one years ago asking me a what or why question about Dragonfly, and when my answer began with “I think it’s probably because . . .” my friend was intrigued. “Why do you say ‘probably’?” he wanted to know. “You’re the author!” — to which I thought, Yes? So what? What does being the author qualify me for?

For people who have not spent much time around us fiction writers, it may seem startling how we talk about our imaginary worlds and our characters with distance, with a shrug, with a pronounced lack of ownership or even responsibility. Why is the story the way it is? If you’ve given it your attention, your guess may well be as good as ours. We’re happy to guess along with you.

My wife is quite used to fiction writers now, but she found it surprising at first how the members of our local, like-minded group of fantasy writers would talk about our characters not behaving, not doing what we expected — and when the characters showed such willfulness, we gave each other high fives, as if we’d done something right.

Dear Readers, we ask your patience with our theories, our noncommittal but impassioned probablies and our I supposes  when we’re explaining the books and stories with our own names on them. And if you still don’t understand the fiction writer’s relationship to the story, try asking a parent about his or her children, about their choices, their wardrobes, their behavior, the things they keep on their shelves. You may get strikingly similar answers.

For these places and characters are our children. They pass through us very narrow channels on their way into the world. We guide and coax them in their first steps, in their first words. We listen hard to discern their meanings. We may try to trim their language until we learn to know better. They bear some of our features; they benefit or suffer from our experiences. But quickly, if we’re doing even a half-decent job, they prove that they are not us.

God willing, they’ll go on being themselves when we’re gone. God willing, you may meet them out there somewhere.