I started writing fiction in the 7th grade. Goofy short stories like "Well Dressed Demons" which was about a woman who gets mugged in a department store and when she awakens, discovers that the mannequins in the mall come to life at night and are plotting to, I suppose, TAKE OVER THE WORLD. She and her boyfriend must thwart these evil beings; but for the life of me I can't remember the details of the thwarting. These stories were fun to write and my English teacher at the time, Miss Shannon was an enthusiastic advocate of my work. She really got a boot out of it. She encouraged me so much, I started writing stories apart from the curriculum of her class. She would read the stories and give me feedback. In depth notes that were more fan letters than anything; but she would offer criticism when it was due: but always constructive. How the story could be made better. It was a joyous collaboration. I felt so sophisticated! But then, life intervened...high school and college and then REAL life. Relocation and employment. I moved to Hollywood and the emphasis was on screenplays. It was still fun creating these little worlds on the page...but something was missing. I also felt I could never write a novel. Who was I to think I had enough material to fill a book? But that was just insecurity talking and the fallout from all the Tinseltown naysaying. People there were always telling you how what you had written had to be something else. You would get "notes" that were really just the ideas of how "they" would do it. And "they" were always frustrated creatives themselves. I finally started the book and after much putting down and picking up and a few very long gaps, eventually finished it. But it's a little scary! Now what? Will anyone ever read it? Will they like it? Was all that work for nothing? At this point, who knows. But at least I can say to the world: "Hey, did you know I wrote a book?"