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.