When we walk in the ordinary world, we do ordinary things.
Our dreams are kept on hold in the back of our minds. Our hopes live in an unreal place called the future.

This is where my hopes and dreams have lived for all of my life. in a state of fitful unrest. Kept under my pillow. Hidden beneath my bedsheets.

My dream since I was thirteen was to be a writer. To tell stories of girls with spiral, hypnotizing eyes, or fairy lands like those of Spenser.

But from a young age, I was too well read. How could I compare my work to a Frank Herbert or an Ursula K. LeGuin. I had a long way to go. So I hid my writing in a suitcase under my bed.

The only person who ever saw my work became my husband, and I never believed him when he said that I was already a writer, that I was already good enough to begin.

Not long ago, I was sick and almost died. I thought, what a shame, I never did write that book.

I love stories.

I love them with a passion that seems unreasonable. I love characters almost as much as as my children.I hold them in my heart sometimes in secret for fear that others will learn of them. Sometimes I shout my love from the rooftops.

I know what it is like to love an idea, for that is what stories are made of. I see one character made for another and my heart melts. And I wish that I could create that kind of passion in my readers.

When I look at characters in a story, they call to me. Love me! Love me! they cry.

Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't, but I can't ignore them, even if I hate them.

Can you?

For the first time in forever, I am opening my heart to the world. Please read my stories. Tell me what you think. Love them, or hate them, but please don't ignore them.

Ros