Knit me a story,
Knit me a story, my daughter would pronounce the moment her younger brother was down for his nap. She would come, favorite doll under one arm, a book and yarn under the other. "Knit me a story." And so we would sit and read as the author took a string of words, twisted them tight into a thread of sentences, worked the thread round and round until a story emerged.
I was very lucky to be born into a family that loved books. And to have a mother who, in the style of the Brothers Grimm, was a natural storyteller. She had a wealth of stories which she would tell and retell, word for word, again and again. "Let me tell you about the day you were born. It was a beautiful spring morning and your father had just left for work when..."
Unfortunately my memory doesn't work with such keen precision. I wander off on tangents, embellish one time and not the next, or forget how the story ended. Cinderella marries the prince? I don't think so, when that nice carpenter would appreciate her hard work and character so much more than that silly prince. What kind of man marries a woman because of her shoes? And so I write my stories, first on paper, now on the computer.
Me, age five.
I was the second middle child in a blue collar family. The first to graduate college. It was a beautiful private school, even had ivy, it did a great job prepping students for graduate school and traditional professions. I received my degree in Economics with large dosages of Sociology and Art thrown in, which made me well-rounded, but not very employable. From there life happened.
Marriage, two kids, multiple jobs, moving, moving, and moving again. Writing, not writing. Finally settling into a small town in the upper Midwest where I have a respectable full-time job. With the children gone and nothing but years ahead before retirement my imaginary friends decided to come out and play in the wee hours of the morning. I hope that you find them as much fun as I do.