I remember when I first discovered the library. As a young girl, I used to sit and stare at the Scholastic Books order form in despair because, being poor, there was no money left over for buying books. Certainly, my parents would never actually buy me a book.
To say that I grew up in a dysfunctional home would be an understatement. In my first visit to the library I was estatic when I was told that I could take out up to ten books. Ten!!!! Can you imagine me - arms loaded, stumbling - books torn, curled yellowed pages. What did it matter?
In stories I found a world that nutured me back to health; a world where I could imagine I was loved and cared for, considered and acknowledged; a world where I was somebody. Stories were like air and I was gasping for breath every moment.
One of my favorite authors was and still is C.S. Lewis. As a child, I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and fantisized about escaping this world through a mahogany wardrobe and living in Narnia forever and ever.
As an adult, I discovered C.S. Lewis had written much more than children stories; stories that challenged me to consider, to ponder, to wonder, to grow. Now I only hope to write stories that are equally as timeless and enchanting.
My love affair with stories began as a child and continues even now. Words which joined together so long ago in another person's mind were a gift to me; they gave me comfort and hope; they came to rest in my heart and in my mind, and now come together of their own accord, forming new and exciting stories that I will now tell, share and give to the world. One day I will nurture the soul of others that way I was nurtured. I will give them the gift that was given to me.