When you are a child, playing with imaginary friends is often considered cute, and most people outgrow those playmates by the time they hit puberty. If you’re one of “those people” (like myself) who cling to their fantasies as they grow into adulthood, we are often considered not quite right in the head or outright crazy.
Personally, I prefer being called a writer since I continue to hold conversations with my characters. Seriously, how else am I going to get to know them? With each new story that pops into my head, I bring those characters to life and, hopefully, entertain my readers at the same time.
Growing up on a small farm in the Midwest was about as American as you can get. We had cows and chickens, had a vegetable garden, went to school on a big yellow bus, worked in hay and cornfields and went to the county fair every year. I knew there were different places and different people who lived in those places; after all, we lived in the country not in a cave and we had a television. As I grew and matured, I used to dream about those other places and those other people. So much so that I started creating stories in my head. It didn’t take long for me to start putting those stories on paper and by the time I was fifteen years old, my first short story was published in my high school newspaper. And that, as they say, was the beginning of my dream to become a real writer.