Far back in the forest of my childhood stands a little house. Empty now, it has been forgotten by everyone except the oak trees and me.
Once upon a time, though, its ramshackle rooms formed castles. As my prolific imagination went to work, sunlight sifting through the decrepit roof gave birth to pixies and gnomes. I believed. Tales of their mischievous exploits soon danced out of my fingers and onto paper. They stayed with me until adolescence began to pick at the seams of my stories with sticky, insistent fingers.
I owe that little house a lot. Inside its tumbledown walls I became enchanted by the written immortalization of thought and experience.
Today, the stories I want to tell run along slightly different lines: hushed-up social justice catastrophes, travel memoirs, anecdotes on the adventure of living. Yet my love for writing remains the same. I want to discover, remember, and find out.
As a child, I wrote because my words lent me the beauty of another world. As a woman, I write because they unlock the splendor of this one.