Great stories begin in the setting. Poignant, right? Or maybe a little facetious? I think we all want to know the answer to this question—where do they come from? And exactly how do I begin to answer it?

Recently, my husband and I went on a trip to see one of my close friends from high school get married. I’m the old maid in this tale—the mother with children attending a million and one school-is-ending events. I still worried about lunches needing to get packed and last-minute homework to be accomplished amid boarding a plane to the artistic and cultural haven that is New Orleans. Nonetheless, the thrill didn’t begin to describe my excitement for staying in the city. Elated. Perhaps, bubbling over. I was around adults who weren’t a part of my child’s soccer team or in the same cello studio (by the way, those parents are gems).

They were people interested in what I was interested in—namely, what I do for a living or my hobbies. Our conversations focused on this specific topic.

I met an archeologist. I discussed attending an event when you’re an event planner. I even talked to a man who worked on telephone systems. I said out loud what I did—but did I dare broach the subject of what I do while trying to explain away the overwhelming need to create something? Somewhat. Truthfully, the stories involving my children were all I could spew.

This is where I found out where all great stories began—or at least, where mine began. But I couldn’t stop the inevitable creep of imposter syndrome.

You see, I was surrounded by literary landmarks. Our hotel WAS a literal literary landmark. You couldn’t walk around the lobby without a little plaque reminding you that Tennesee Williams frequented the lobby or that Ernest Hemmingway met up for drinks with other writers at the Carousel Bar.

For a moment, I was crushed by the knowledge that these writers once roamed the halls I stepped in to escape motherhood's mundane moments. Could I even compare? What if my own milieu of my ordinary life doesn’t measure up to the artistry of these incredibly gifted writers? Are my stories worth telling?

A friend, new to us but old to the friend getting married, leaned in. His eyes sparkled as I talked about my mundanities. The little moments I took for granted were only glimpses of hope he saw for his wife and himself in the near future.

I started where all my great stories begin. They begin at a place I call home. Sure, they don’t have crown molding or crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but I like where my stories begin. My stories are found in school pick-up lines, between bath time, during the giggles at dinner, the stillness after an argument when a room hasn’t been picked up, or even in my living room. While, to me, these stories seem rehearsed and old—my listener leaned in.

Great stories incline the ears of our listeners when we see the magic from where our stories began. The stories that started at home. Because if I don’t take on the mantle of telling my own narrative, no one else will see the magic in between my words, pauses, and phrases. All great stories begin with us valuing them.

Because when we do value them—they accrue interest. And not that all stories will be interesting to every audience. It’s up to us to create despite outside markers of success. The truth is that once you find value in your story, you become your audience. How delightful is it to find the magic in your own stories? It’s just the right thing I needed to remind me—

To just create anyway.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Create Anyway".