I'm just trying to write a good story, strictly from imagination.

“I’m just trying to write a good story, strictly from imagination. People just think it’s random, they don’t see the rewriting, phrasing of characters, choosing the words, bringing the world to light in which the characters live in. That creates an illusion that this is real.” – Eric Jerome Dickey

In this humble yet profound reflection, Eric Jerome Dickey, master storyteller and craftsman of human emotion, reveals the secret alchemy that lies behind all great art. His words are not merely about writing, but about the eternal act of creation — of shaping worlds from the invisible depths of the imagination, of breathing life into shadow, and of transforming thought into something that feels as real as flesh and time. When Dickey says that his stories are “strictly from imagination,” he is not boasting of invention; he is describing the divine labor of the artist — the sacred transformation of nothing into something, of the unseen into the unforgettable.

The casual eye sees only the finished tale — the laughter, the heartbreak, the triumph of characters that seem alive. But, as Dickey reminds us, beneath that illusion lies discipline, rewriting, and careful craft. The world may think the story is born effortlessly, like a song sung by the wind, but every word has been chosen, every phrase sculpted, every scene wrestled from the storm of thought. The illusion of reality, that delicate magic which makes the reader believe in an imagined world, is not born of chance — it is the result of precision, patience, and an artist’s unyielding devotion to truth.

To write a story, Dickey suggests, is to become both creator and craftsman — to hold the fire of inspiration in one hand and the chisel of revision in the other. The ancients would have called this the path of the maker, the one who tames chaos and gives it form. Imagination provides the raw power, but it is artistry that gives that power purpose. Just as the sculptor must carve away the marble to reveal the figure within, so must the writer carve through words until the story breathes. What the world calls “random,” the artist knows as ritual — a process as ancient as the shaping of myths, where divine disorder becomes human order through toil and love.

Consider the example of Michelangelo, who once said that the statue already lived within the stone — his task was merely to set it free. To the onlooker, his work appeared miraculous; to him, it was the result of tireless labor, endless correction, and a vision held steadfast in the mind. So too with Dickey’s writing: though readers see only the seamless story, the author has endured the hidden struggle — the reshaping of words, the listening to voices that exist only in thought, the weaving of a world that feels utterly real. The illusion of life in art is born from countless acts of discipline and courage.

Dickey’s insight also reminds us of something deeper: that the artist’s imagination is not an escape from reality, but a means of understanding it. The worlds he builds, though born from invention, reflect the truths of the human soul. His characters are mirrors of ourselves — their loves, their doubts, their small acts of courage and failure. The illusion of reality he creates is not deception; it is revelation. Through fiction, he teaches us to see more clearly what is true, just as the poet’s song or the painter’s brush once revealed divine order in the chaos of human life.

And yet, in his humility, Dickey also speaks to the loneliness of the creator — that few see the labor beneath the beauty. The writer’s struggle is often invisible, hidden behind the illusion of ease. But it is through that hidden work that meaning takes shape. The imagination is not a gift lightly held; it demands sacrifice, time, and faith in the unseen. The artist must dwell between worlds — one foot in the real, one in the imagined — and from that borderland, he brings back treasures that others may mistake for fantasy.

So let us take the lesson from Eric Jerome Dickey’s words: that every act of creation — whether it be a story, a song, or a life well lived — requires both imagination and perseverance. Do not believe that beauty arises by accident, or that great works are the fruit of luck. Behind every masterpiece lies unseen labor, the rewriting of one’s own heart until it beats in harmony with truth. To create is to serve — to serve the invisible by giving it voice, to serve others by offering them a mirror to their own soul.

Therefore, cultivate your imagination, but pair it with devotion. Dream, but also build. Let your ideas take form through your hands, your will, your patience. For in the end, as Dickey reminds us, the highest magic is not in the dream itself, but in the craft that turns the dream into reality’s reflection. And when others marvel at what seems effortless, you will know — as all true artists do — that what appears simple was born of struggle, and what seems imaginary carries within it the weight of truth.