I guess you could say I’ve been writing since before I could write. The first thing I remember “writing” was a poem I dictated to my mother when I was five. I sat in the back seat of the car, it was late (or was to a five-year-old), and my mother wrote down the whole poem for me on a little notebook she had in her purse. It was called “Do You Believe in Monsters?” and it rhymed. I lost the paper a long time ago, but I remember one of the verses went:
Do you believe in monsters—
the ones that are big and tall?
Do you believe in monsters
at all?
Genius obviously. (Hey, I was five.)
That probably would have been the highlight of my writing career right there if I hadn’t been encouraged to try writing fiction again by a wonderful English teacher in high school.
Quit Playing with Yer Dolls, er, Monsters
Children are natural storytellers. Whether they’re changing their doll’s diapers or constructing elaborate battle plans for their “action figures” (i.e., dolls boys are allowed to play with), play is often all about telling a story. Making stuff up. Imagining.
Except somewhere along the line, we’re told to stop that. Quit playing with dolls. Grow up.
Trouble is, some of us can’t. I can’t speak for every writer, but surely for myself, the need to tell stories remained long after my parents packed my toys for burial in the attic. But writing down those stories never occurred to me until that English teacher made us give it a try as part of a class assignment.
And I can’t thank him enough for all the housework that doesn’t get done because of it or for all the time I spend daydreaming mentally writing.
It’s All About the Monsters
I’ve tried my hand at a number of genres over the years, but the one I keep returning to is the paranormal. After all, I grew up listening to my mother’s recordings of Vincent Price reading The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, The Pit and the Pendulum, and “The Raven.” I didn’t always understand the stories, but I loved the creepy mood they evoked.
When I was older I adored telling ghost stories around the camp fire. Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. And hey, my mother used to dress up as Dracula that night. How could I not learn to love the creepy and macabre? Mythology, which can be pretty creepy itself when it’s not being quirky, also fed that love in high school and college.
Is it any wonder I write fantasy/paranormal? And if a story contains elements of the creepy mixed with mythology, even better.
Creepy, quirky, and with a twist of magic. I suppose that’s what I aim for with all my stories. Then add one strong girl who kicks monster butt.
So there you have it. A little about me. Oh sure, I could have told you some other stuff, but it doesn’t have anything to do with monsters. Still, if you’d like to know, you can click here.