A Good Storyteller, I Am Not

I have come to conclude, after much contemplation, that I am not a good storyteller. Yes, I do write and, yes, you might find some of what I write interesting, but that, I must confess, does not establish my mastery of storytelling. I have my reasons for saying so, and it is not, as might be thought by some, a concoction to entice you to ready my work, but rather an admission from one who has failed to attain that which his profession most demands.
See, a good storyteller will invite you into his world and have you make it yours as well. He, or she, will dazzle you with mirages, fooling you into springing them to life. The effects are amazing; your palms and pits drool, your heart palpitates, your eyelids omit their purpose, and your over-excited mind has to be calmed of its anxiety to know what the next letter, word, or page will unveil. That is a good storyteller.
I, on the other hand, will tell a singular story in a singular manner with neither straying into the forays of welcoming nor those of accommodating. They are from a single viewpoint; with myself as the principle subject and the narrator, a fact dearly despised by my friend and author, Rob. I must admit that it hobbles my ability to totally project others' feelings and secrets, but it also enables me to palpate the inner-most of my muses, and bring them out for the world to weigh. My loves, hates, fears and ambitions are laid bare for the reader to witness and judge accordingly.
All in all, I admit I do lack possession of what it is that would make me a good storyteller, but the thought of ceding my place as a simple storyteller is one which I have no notion entertaining. So, be vigilant of a story by me and, should you happen to come across one, enjoy it keeping in mind that it is NOT by a good storyteller.