I never knew that I was a writer... that writing was something I had all along. So many days in younger years were spent deep in thought, deep in my own world, deep in writing. Rainy days were the most precious of all; throwing open my bedroom window during the storms to welcome all the music of it, and feel the raindrops against my bare arm, as I sat so near and wrote. And looking out, toward the woods, toward the vast grey skies, my imagination soared. And this imagination has always been with me, intense and unyielding in spontaneous passion. Sometimes it was too much, so writing was a way to quiet some of the storms in my own head. But it never seemed to be anything more than that; a temporary escape or a way to pass the time, with short stories and poems, and songs practised over and over again on a black guitar (I call her Sabrina, not sure why. The name just felt right). Those early days of delving into books and fashioning my own stories were both innocent and confined. Beowulf, and Ivanhoe, and The Hobbit were lovely... and yet this adventurous heart craved even more. Then one day, when a good friend told me all this "goofing around" was so much more, I began to see the path I was meant to follow. So here I am, at long last. Still figuring out who this author is supposed to be, how she's meant to keep to the road and continue on this grand adventure. \— CSVB