Upon hearing the young boy's simple, innocent question, “What do you do now that you’re all grown up?” I wanted to answer him truthfully.
"I am a liar," I replied, and the boy cocked his head, confused. His eyes were wide with disbelief, but this look of confusion he displayed quickly transformed into one of interest.
"How can your job be a liar? Isn't lying bad?"
I leaned down, propping myself on my knees so that I could be eye-to-eye with the boy. They were gleaming with anticipation, a response coinciding to that of a normal, curious young mind.
"Yes, lying isn't good," I replied, the boy continuing to listen attentively, "But I create lies that were meant to entertain you, not hurt your feelings. I'm an author; a storyteller."
Although the boy still seemed slightly puzzled after further explaining, perhaps from the sudden debunking of his current morals, he smiled at me with a peaceful naivety before walking off to go play with the other children.
Many other adults would find what I deem appropriate to say to a child merely laughable, but it was all innocent, nonetheless; a small jest that kept the child and I entertained for a moment.
However, that was years ago. The boy has grown up as well as his generation, and their lust for new technology and their infatuation with the digital world has left the world of books barren.
I told the boy of a harmless zinger, the boy who would be the last to know of what the world was like before technology killed the author; the storyteller.
On that day, I told the boy that we storytellers are liars, but I regret that now.
We aren't liars. We are the only ones that speak the truth.