I grew up a voracious reader, feeding my imagination with books. I attribute that to my mother who read to me in the womb and continued after I took my first breath. My grandfather had tall book cases around the house and books laying on every table, mostly about dogs, baseball, and politics. I left the political ones alone.
I spent hours exploring the woods around my farm, pretending to be the characters in my books.I was “Hawk-eye”, surviving in the wilderness.These foray's were not without the misfortune of my ever present law as I came home many days bleeding and bruised.
I looked for “Charlotte” among the spider webs in our hayloft and often found our resident blacksnake instead.
Later, I explored every wardrobe I could trying to find “Narnia and Aslan”. I had to hang up a lot of clothes that I'd knocked down.
As an adult, I can still remember reading my first novel with a lesbian character and how it made me feel to finally identify in an entirely new way. The age of discovery wasn't always kind, but the last decade has been grand.
My adventure into writing came at the suggestion of my best half. Several years ago, she asked me to write her a story. My brain started asking “what if” when she mentioned forgetting I’d written the story until something sounded familiar.
Maya Angelou said...“Making a decision to write was a lot like deciding to jump into a frozen lake.”
And so, several stories later, encouraged by many, I took a leap of faith into that frozen lake and haven't looked back.
You can follow my misadventures on