When I was little I didn’t realize that not everybody had stories. I thought it ordinary to have whole worlds, scenes, characters, complete with scents and expressions; the conflicts; running on a nearly endless loop inside one’s inner eye. By the time I discovered it was unique, that I was unique, I had developed an urge, a desire, a craving if you will, to write the stories down. It started early; the earliest I can remember I was in kindergarten. I couldn’t even write the words myself; I asked my teacher to do it for me. I dictated, she scribed, and a writer was born. That was the beginning as best as I can remember. For over three decades this…[I hesitate to use the word compulsion as I infer a lack of control in that word and I prefer the warm fuzzy feeling the illusion of self-control provides]…need to see my words in print has driven me. But it’s more and somehow less than just that. There is an emotional release in the letting. Sometimes I picture my imagination leaking like a funky faucet and the imaginary drip makes me anxious. I used to itch to grab a pen, now I itch to type. And I love scratching this particular itch.