I have always had a storyteller’s mind. It’s always whirling, taking things in, processing, rephrasing, rewriting. I’ve always enjoyed telling stories – via by page, by pen to paper or finger to keyboard to screen.
My friends in grade school used to call me The Weaver, for I’d spend sleepovers and slumber parties weaving stories of gore and horror, terrifying the socks off my friends better than any B-grade horror flick could. I’d have them deeply believing that the ghost of a little boy who died from the measles in the 1800s truly does wander my back deck, where the old farm house used to be. Despite the fact that we’d bulldozed the old farm house to build our new, modern home, the ghost remained, unable to find peace because he was gone too young and missed his mother. He wants revenge for us destroying the only home he’d ever known.