Time travel aside, I am guilty of 'writing what I know'. I grew up reading Heinlein and Bradbury and was certain I'd head out for a space colony somewhere, just as soon as space exploration caught up with my sci-fi expectations. In my universe at least, that was not to be. Instead, I married while still a teenager to an Arkansas farm boy.
Instead of a space colonist, I became a Jill of all trades:
A novelist, artist, goat herder, chicken-fancier's wife, personal assistant to two German Shepherds, mother, back-alley aroma therapist, amateur herbalist, theorist, soaper, cat wrangler, explorer of alternatives, woo-woo spiritual advisor, wool spinner (or more properly, spinster), equestrian (retired), acquirer of antiques: i.e., I became an anachronistic dilettante. In most things, I dabble, but I am passionate about writing.
-- and it all began with a number 2 pencil on the back porch of the very same log cabin that contains the time vortex in my Wardenclyffe Trilogy books.
Except at the usual rate and in the usual direction, I'm sorry to say I have not (as yet) traveled in time. If my words survive the distant future, let this be notice that I'm game. Come and get me! As long as you can get me back again in time to milk the goats.
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