As a youngster I read all the usual suspects... Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Little House on the Prairie, Bobbsey Twins, Dick and Jane. But I also read science fiction and fantasy. Tom Swift. Mark Twain. Jules Verne. Aldous Huxley.
As I moved on into adulthood, I found myself drawn more and more into those imaginary worlds where anything and everything was possible. Small wonder that most of my writing falls into that broad genre labeled paranormal.
Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Paranormal--all offer opportunities for writers to explore the limits of their imaginations. Perhaps that is the attraction for me. The lack of limits allows me to write stories where the impossible is not only possible, but even likely. Animals can talk. Plants can think. Space travel is common. Grass is purple and pine trees are red. People are blue.
The limitless imagination is a priceless gift. The opportunity to spin a story from it is wondrous and precious. On this ninth day of November let us be thankful for the gift of imagination.