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I’ve been a fugitive from reality since forever. As a kid, I constantly made up stories—some would call them lies—about my family, friends, neighbors and even strangers on the street. I had friends that only I could see. Oh, the adventures we had! You know, just a little kid having fun.
Learning to read was a revelation. Words fascinated me. Whole new worlds opened up, and since my parents forbade nothing, I read everything. Some of it I didn’t quite understand, but that was okay with me. I read it anyway. I even read the dictionary. When I was a little older, I was big on mysteries. Then I graduated to horror. I was reading a little science fiction at this time—Robert Heinlein and authors like him—but I really didn’t get into it until I was in college. And that led to fantasy, a la Lord of The Rings, and so on.
During this time I was still making up stories, but not writing them down. They were private. Besides, I thought my family and friends would laugh at me. The only story I recall writing was one that won a contest when I was in elementary school.
So anyway, life goes on. I went to law school. After I graduated and entered into the work force, I finally started writing down my stories. I wrote a bit here and there, short stories that never saw the light of day (which was probably a good thing). Then I fell ill. I had two different strains of flu, and was down for a month. Bored out of my skull, I started writing a piece of fan fiction, though I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. I showed it to a friend of mine who suggested I finish the story.
Well, that piece of fan fiction fell by the wayside, but in its place came a manuscript that would eventually become my first book, The Underground. I absolutely adored writing it. I absolutely adore writing, period. Slipping into that alternate reality for hours, there was a time in my life when it was called daydreaming and I got into trouble for it. Now it’s legitimate.
And that’s the best part of all.
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