Ever since childhood, I have wanted to be a writer. I devoured books, inhaled them. Anything that I could get my hands on, the bigger, the better.  I loved the library, the smell of old books, musty leather and parchment, the smell of history and knowledge, fantasy and horror, romance and suspense. I read it all.

By the time I was 12 years old, I was writing short stories and poems full of teen angst and heartbreak. I had fallen hard for Stephen King and read everything I could get my hands on by this amazingly creepy author. I had found my idol and my genre.

​

I entered a few poetry contests in my teen years, won a few editor's choice awards, but I knew my path wasn't in poetry. That was my stress relief, my emotional outpouring for feelings that I could not verbally express. And honestly, poetry is not as widely read in this day and age, not like it once was. 

But horror now had me in its grasp. That was my future and every short story after became darker and more uncomfortable. I enjoyed the build up and the anticipation of the "horror". I loved feeling the fear deep in my gut when I read horror novels. The suspense of it all. 

​

As life often does, it got in the way of my plans and enter children, full time jobs and the full time business of living. Writing was put on hold while I went on with life, motherhood and career. I made several attempts to begin writing again, but everywhere I looked, I only saw closed doors. I sighed heavily and put my dreams aside. 

​

Then in 2019, I found myself writing again, to help a friend with a contest entry. A story we were to co-write, but as time revealed, she never intended to write it with me at all. She was set on getting me to write again.  Four months later, Breach was born. 

​

This is why we are here now, this is why I exist, doors are opening and the stories locked in my mind are begging to be let out. I am daring to dream again, dear friends, and it's exciting and uncomfortable and it keeps me awake in the dark.