I started this blog way back in September last year, when I was at home after my stroke, lonely, bored and more than a little scared.   It wasn’t something I really shared, it was more of a way to try and wrap my mind around what was going on to me.   However, a couple of days ago, without knowledge that I had this page, hubby suggested I start up blogging on my life’s passion…writing.  So I intend to meld subjects here, discuss my writing and my post stroke journey.

I left the blog hanging, but to understand my writing and where I come from I feel I need to step back and give a lot more on the creation of a geek writer.

I am a military brat, born to one mathematical genius (my father) and one sci-fi/fantasy/rabid reader (my mother).   One of the first things you learn when you’re a military brat is that you don’t get friends.  You get acquaintances that you change out every three years, like rugs and dishware.   Some military children handle this well, they hit a new place running, fall into place like they’d been there their entire lives.  Others turn introspective, decide that the wash, rinse and repeat is just too heartbreaking and tedious, and refuse to play anymore.  I was very much the latter, and I became very closely attached to the person in my life who was always there, my mother.   By the time I was three, my continued requests (demands?  whines?) for yet another story read to me had worn her down, and she sat me down and taught me to read.  By the time I went into first grade, was thrown in with other children, I was a voracious reader, reading at a level well beyond my grade level.   No matter what happened, where we went, I had books, and I loved them.  They were the friends I could take with me when I left.

As a child, my first career choice was paleontologist, because I loved digging and dinosaurs.  I went through the varying degrees of archaeologist (because I loved digging and Raiders of the Lost Ark) and geologist (because I loved digging and rocks).  There was some consideration of vet (but my mathematical abilities are non existent…that gift apparently jumps a generation) and I flirted with joining the military… but somewhere in the beginning, a seed was planted.  I wanted to be an author.   I would write historical romances with Fabio on the cover, the titles embossed in foil.   I would live in a Victorian house, in Oregon or Washington, on a windswept cliff overlooking a beach.   I would do so alone except for a couple of cats, a dog, and maybe a horse or four, because I just didn’t get along with the males of my own species.   (Yes, I do see the irony of writing romances with that mindset, now.)

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