We may lie in our beds at night, or sit before our computers. We feel the brush of an eyelash caress a cheek, hot breath tickling our neck; smell the lilacs in bloom or the honeysuckle; taste the salt in perspiration or sweet heat of the jalapeno. We are there in the palace, the factory, or the ghetto. Our senses sit in readiness for us like soldiers primed to carry out our orders, facilitating scenes directors only dream about. We have a special built in team of image makers. We’re born with them. We’re writers.