I would like to say I’ve been telling stories all my life. That somehow I knew writing was my calling. I think I loved the story first. I appreciated the glory of my father reading The Monster at the End of This Book. I hated when my teacher was finished reading the daily paragraph of The Borrowers to us in class. I loved listening to adults at parties as they told stories to each other.
When I was in 6th grade, a friend of mine called herself a writer, and she was. She was writing books. Such a thing was unheard of in my little world. Still, the mere idea of writing a book gave me a strange thrill. I thought, if she can do it, then I could do it to. So I put to pen to paper and as my adolescent scrawl filled the page something strange happened. There were no rules then, there was no fear. There was no audience other than myself. My format came from every book I had ever read until that moment. At the time my influences were a strange mix of Ray Bradbury, Stephen King and Daniel Steele, all who I read under the covers at night.