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I confess. I have a problem. For me, paranormal fiction started young. I used to sneak reads at night by catching the streetlight at my window. On the outside, I was a normal kid. Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, reading kept me quiet and out of trouble. But on the inside, my imagination swelled like an alien fetus in an unwary human host. My sweaty hands gripped pages bubbling with witches, ghosts and magic. The stranger the tale, the greater the journey, the bigger the monsters... the drunker I became.
Drunk on paranormal fantasy.
At seven, I was writing short stories about fantastical creatures. At fifteen, I started a few novels, but never finished. In my twenties, I mainlined Anita Blake stories and went hardcore into urban fantasy addiction. Soon I would absorb so much paranormal juiciness, that it would start oozing out my fingertips. They twitched to write an urban fantasy of my own. In my thirties, I could be seen at local coffee houses of Tempe, Arizona, devouring books, mumbling and jotting down story notes. It's taken many (a lady never tells how many) years of shaky typing, but now my words are in print.
The cycle is complete. I can only hope that my words will infect you in the same way.