It started young. Sneaking reads at night, flashlight under the covers. On the outside, I was a normal kid. Reading kept me quiet and out of trouble. On the inside, my imagination swelled like an alien fetus in an unwary human host. Sweaty hands gripped pages filled with adventure, peril and heroism. Pages were turned. Gasps were uttered. The stranger the tale, the greater the journey, the bigger the monsters… the drunker the Tamela.
Drunk on fantasy.
By seven, I was writing short stories. I guess you could say I was hooked. Addicted, even.
It's taken many (a lady never tells how many) years of shaky typing, but now my words are in print.
The fangs must flash. The blood must flow. The words must be written.