Humans are storytellers. In some of us the drive is almost maternal in strength. We’re driven to give our story a life by getting it out of our minds and onto paper or onto the computer screen. I have that drive, strong enough to keep me writing for over twenty-five years.
Second, my mother fueled my drive to tell stories when she taught me to read while sitting at her side. She instilled in me the love of reading, of being transported into different lands with exotic people doing incredible deeds. Over the years, like many people, I came to appreciate the magic authors use to create stories that touch peoples souls and stay with them for decades. Reading was the footpath that led me to the point where I decided to attempt to create the magic that I enjoyed so much.
Third, my birth mother was mentally ill most of my life slipping in and out of mental hospitals. I wondered as I grew up if that insanity had been passed on to me, simmering to emerge some day in my life. When I was thirty I concluded that sanity exists in a person when they are creative in positive ways— not in destructive ways. Being a published author keeps a lid on my simmering pot.
Fourth, I enjoy writing. I enjoy the challenge to communicate in as few words as possible the feelings bubbling in my characters, in painting the scent and feeling of a location, as well as in portraying action. I enjoy creating the magic in the hope it works for the reader.
