Writing is like having a wonderful dream while you’re wide awake. The world becomes what you make and what you make of it. Characters lurk in the shadows or burst into the room, some with their own agendas, others looking for one. Windows appear, draperies descend, wallpaper blossoms with patterns intricate. A room once dark begins to glow from a fire set crackling by your very thought as a well-dressed man smelling of wood smoke and cheap cologne beckons you closer and whispers, “And this is how it all began.”
Writing is my retreat.