My parents worked long hours. Being an only child I was alone all the time.  Reading and writing became my best friends.  I was never alone when I had a book in my hand.  I started writing when I was eight years old.  In the summer I was allowed to ride my bike to the library. One of my happiest times was returning from the library with a stack of books strapped to the back of my bike.  I was going into all those new worlds of adventure.  I still feel that way. Growing up in the South was magical for me. I loved reading about ancient plantations with three hundred year old oak tress, moss draping, like grey lace, from their limbs.  Laying in a backyard of clover, fist under my chin, watching the heat pulse off a newly laid asphalt road.  Chasing fireflies in the summer night.  Sitting under a covered patio watching streaks of lightning and listening to rain beat down on a tin roof.