To the unacquainted passerby and even to the well-seasoned friend, my explanation for why I had the insatiable impetus to write fiction would make no sense. Any discussion of it probably sounds effectively elusive or marginally mystical.
Starting on this series – yes, I said series, not just one standalone book – wasn’t so I could be cool, check off a bucket-list item, or fulfill an American dream. In fact, the timing and prognosis for success, on the face of it, couldn’t have been worse. When I began writing this adult fiction, my life was in the toilet. A promised love had turned sour. It was exponentially worse than curdled milk left out on a warm, humid day. It was an embittered, vengeful thorn that continually hunted (not haunted, hunted) me and bludgeoned my trust in people to care or love when it mattered most.
And yet, I had an overwhelming sense, a calling that would not be ignored, to write about love. That’s right, in the thick of an emotional tsunami that turned my life inside out, upside down, and then shook me like a San Andreas Fault earthquake; I was supposed to use words to encourage others about indiscriminate love that withstands trials, storms, misunderstandings, mistakes, and the test of time. I was to show that hope and brightness still exist amidst blinding darkness, corruption, and cruelty.
Hence, my genre-bending storytelling dive into magical realism was born. Are you ready?
Now, it’s your turn.
What’s your passion?