A couple of weeks ago when I asked you to ask me questions – my father in law piped up on facebook to ask me to answer how I came to love writing.

The answer is rooted in a long ago memory and a love of books.

I rarely remember nightmares.  Maybe for a day or two, but so few actually stick with me.

For all of my 30+ years, I remember my very first nightmare.

I was still in a crib when I had it. I think I was two and a half at most.  I woke up screaming.

Because in my dream I had torn my favorite book. Bongo.

I still remember the nightmare. I still remember the horror I felt over seeing my favorite book shredded in my crib. I treasured that book.

My dad to this day jokes that I was reading the Reader’s Digest cover to cover when I was three.  He wasn’t far off, and it was about that age that I stole my first set of Little House books from my brother’s bookshelf (why in heaven he had them, I have no idea).

Eventually in middle school I got to the teenage angsty poetry phase which morphed into a stunning enjoyment of my English classes and writing. I loved the challenge of taking an assignment and doing something outside of the box. Then a college Creative Writing Course and then nothing.

For quite a few years I didn’t write.

A few years ago I wrote a story just for fun. I got some encouragement and eventually turned into something almost sell-able. Almost, because I’m still learning.

But I’m loving learning. Writing. Creating. Watching my characters come alive on the page. For about six months out of the year writing is what I spend a lot of time on. Sometimes to my husband’s chagrin because I’m up until all hours being driven by my characters to tell their story.

It’s exciting.

Reading. Writing.

Finding other worlds to live in. The past, the future, an alternate universe.  An escape from the normal of everyday. The sometimes good, sometimes bad, always REAL world we live in.