I was an indoor kid, and spent a lot of time getting lost in imaginary worlds. Eventually I ran out of worlds to explore, so I started building my own. Crayons in hand, I filled pages upon pages with buildings, cities, kingdoms, and planets, taping them all up on the basement walls. Every single one of those pages contained countless stories, and they served as my escape whenever reality grew too difficult to handle.

Writing out those stories came later, when I was in Middle School and struggling with far too much for my 11 year old brain to handle. Getting lost in those imaginary worlds helped me work through my fears without the looming anxieties of prejudice and hostility. Telling stories saved my life, and it became my hope that through writing them, I could do the same for others.

Good question! Me...I honestly don’t know. I think I’ve always done it. My grandmother had a book I wrote for her when I was 8. It was about a little girl getting lost in the woods and being saved by gnomes. I wrote my first novel when I was in high school (it was atrocious. But I learned from it). My computers and notebooks have always been filled with have-conceived story ideas and random excerpts to books that have never existed.

I think a lot of it was that, growing up, my family didn’t have a TV. So every night, rather than watching television, I watched my mother and father read. Then, when I could, that’s what I did, too. I am truly grateful for that now. I hope to one day instill that love of stories and literature into my own children.