My infant memories are of the stories I made up, the stories read to me and the night sky coloured by fires, the aftermath of incendiary bombs.

 

I grew up first in Kent and then Surrey from where I visited ‘the sights’ such as St Pauls Cathedral, the Tower of London, Westminster Cathedral, Dick Whittington’s stone on Highgate Hill and St James Park.  In the countryside, to name a few, I visited Hampton Court, Richmond, Windsor and Eton.  My heritage inspired my love of history.  I read voraciously and my imagination grew.

 

It’s odd to hear that question asked of me. Since fifth grade when I’d poured over the adventurous stories of Nancy Drew, Donna Parker and Trixie Belden, and I attempted my own words to paper, I had no inkling that one day my name would appear on a book’s cover.

Two years ago when I browsed inside a bookstore and inquired to the location for a writer’s handbook, the clerk asked, “Are you a writer?” I wasn’t sure how to answer. Though the title of “writer” deserved to be bestowed on a choice few, I was certain I wasn’t one of them. I’d had a few articles accepted to an ezine–unpaid–but I’d learned that didn’t qualify one to be called an official “writer.” But because I did write, I answered the question in the affirmative.