<------- That’s me right there!
I’ve always been a dreamer. My mind was roaming far-flung fields and running about with forest-fae while someone in school shouted times tables at me. I started writing young for creative writing exercises at school and loved the ability to put my own daydreams onto paper.
When I wasn’t at the stables learning to ride and look after horses, I’d spend hours indoors on weekends using our first family computer (a beloved Windows leviathan which had Compuserve internet on it). I’d write pony stories about 6 pages long and assume they were worthy of accolades.
I never stopped writing pony stories but soon teenage-hood kicked in and developed my love of fantasy. Then my dad got sick and so I sank into my daydreams and escaped into fiction and other worlds.
I grew up devouring books by Anne Rice (the Mayfair Witches especially), Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett and then wandering through the good old days with Jane Austen and the Bronte Sisters, and spent the latter part of my childhood dreaming up local locations of hobbit holes. I tried to get into Diagon Alley on more than one occasion and every time I'm in London now I'm still looking for signs of London Below hoping to see the Marquis or one of the old trains trundling along.
Despite a slew of fanciful career attempts in my more grown-up life (failures, if you will), writing fiction is the one thing that stuck and now I couldn’t imagine being a whole person if I wasn’t able to dream up stories.
Deep down I’m always convinced that nobody will want to read my stories, much less love them, and I will die penniless and unloved surrounded by unread copies of my books. But so far people seem taken with all the adventures so I trundle on, loving my characters to the point of lunacy and hoping that one day I'll at least make enough to buy a pony. Or a unicorn. I’d settle for a tank.