Let me tell you a story . . .
Those words have such magic for me. I love stories: reading them, writing them, listening to others tell them. I love bedtime stories. Wide-awake stories. Stories for a rainy day, and stories about places where there’s never been a drop of rain.
I love finding stories. Stories buried in a friend’s heart. Stories I’ve read before and have re-discovered in cleaning out the attic or my daughter’s bookcase. Stories by writers I’ve never heard of before and picked up because the blurb hooked me. Stories by writers I thought I knew, but have something more to say.
I love getting lost in stories. One of my favorite family stories is about the time I didn’t come home for dinner as a teen and my parents called the library and all the local bookstores looking for me. I’d sat down in a quiet corner of my favorite used bookstore to read a new Robin McKinley novel and lost track of time. I still do that on a weekly basis, only now it’s my office calling.
I love stories that transport me to other worlds. Middle-Earth. Narnia. Gor. Amber. Mars. Fionavar. Arrakis. Damar. Pandora. The Flat Earth. The Cursed Earth. Oerth. The World of Two Moons. Pern. I love stories that let me be someone else. John Carter. Sherlock Holmes. Nancy Drew. Case. Cutter. Harry Potter. Harry Dresden. Number Ten Ox. Sonya Blue. Angharad Crewe. Peter Grant. Raybould Marsh.
I love writing stories. I try to write every day, and I have for nearly forty years. I’ve written in spiral notebooks, on the backs of napkins, on four different types of Macintosh computer, in forty-two different states and eleven different countries, in the wee hours, in between time-zones, during classes, during meetings, and during childbirth.
I write stories that I want to read. Stories that transport. Stories that let me be someone else. Stories I get lost in.
I hope you will, too.
Welcome. Let me tell you a story.
(Image courtesy Depositphotos, used under license.)