“Read me a story, Papa.”
Sometimes it was just me, sometimes my sister would be with me, but he always obliged us. We’d curl up in his lap, one on each side, and we’d sit there as he read whatever book we brought to him. When I look at these memories, I still see the slightly yellowish glow of the lamp beside the recliner as its light spilled over the pages. I remember the way his hands looked as he held the book, or turned the pages. And I remember the sound of his voice as he took us on the journey that unfolded in the book. When he finished the book, one of two questions always followed.
“Read it again, Papa.”
“Read us another one, Papa.”
Mama had a different way of reading to us, but it was still just as special. Mama would usually read to us whenever we asked, but my fondest memories are the bedtime stories, when my sister and I were tucked into our bed.
“Mama, read us a story.”
Often the room would be dark, save a lamp or the hall light shining into the room. Sometimes Mama would sit on the bed, and other times she’d sit across the room. If she was sitting on the bed, sometimes she’d sit cross-legged. Other times she’d sit with her legs crossed and hanging over the edge. If she was across the room, she’d often sit on the vanity counter. I still see her sitting there in front of the large mirror, her legs crossed with one foot on the vanity chair. I still see the way she held the book in front of her, the way she occasionally bounced the leg that was crossed over the other. I still hear her soft voice as she transported us to the world of the story. When she finished the book, the same two questions followed.
“Mama, read it again.”
“Mama, read us another one.”
Once I learned to read on my own, I was never without a book and I read everything I could. I traveled to other worlds, some similar to ours, some vastly different, and one extremely spooky world where all the houses were identical and all the children did the same things at the same times. I triumphed over evil, waged wars, fell in love, and watched love die. I solved mysteries with Nancy Drew. Atlanta burned as I rode in the wagon with Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler. I waited for a train with Anna Karenina. I walked down Fear Street and visited Point Horror with R.L. Stine. Caroline B. Cooney surrounded me with Fog, Snow, and Fire. I passed out with Jane Eyre in the red room and I rejoiced with her and Rochester when he was able to see their child. Richie Tankersley Cusick and Christopher Pike showed me that even teens could be twisted. Heathcliff filled me with ambivalence as I tried to decide if he truly loved Catherine or if he merely wanted to possess her. I visited Sweet Valley High with Jessica and Elizabeth, and laughed and cried with their maternal ancestors in The Wakefields of Sweet Valley. And I read many of these books years before I started high school. Yes, including Anna Karenina and Gone With the Wind.
Books came first, and are still my passion, but I’ve always possessed an active imagination. Once I learned to write, I realized I could create stories of my own, and that people actually wanted to read them. I didn’t get serious about writing until later, and I have a manuscript I’m extensively revising at the moment. It’s probably best classified as urban fantasy and while there is a romantic subplot, I really don’t feel it’s a romance.
I met Carol when I worked for Musa Publishing, and I fell in love with the characters and world she created for Wilder Mage. During the course of editing Wilder Mage, Carol and I became friends and I really enjoy working with her!
My reading tastes are varied and I read across genres. My writing has a tendency toward fantasy (both urban and sword and sorcery), horror, romance and soft sci-fi.
I live in Georgia with my husband, our four children, and two fur-babies, one a dog and one a cat.
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