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My Obsession With Words and Imagination Began Early

As soon as I could hold a pencil, and put words on a page, I believed I was a storyteller.  Why?  How?  Who?  and The first thought in my head when my eyes opened in the morning was, What kind of world can I create for my make-believe friends?  (No one could talk me out of it.) 


My oldest sister (I am one of ten) told my husband that when we were growing up I wrote a new play for us every fifteen minutes.  (It really was not that often and she is nice enough to still listen to my imaginings.)  My mother, a saint, was patient and understanding when I used her best quilt for a picnic in a play, or when I wore her sacred purple dress with tiny metal stars all over the top in one of my creations.  (It was soon hidden away and created an on-going mystery for me.)  


My mom encouraged me to concentrate on the words rather than costumes and props.  I did, and I had plenty of stimuli on our little cattle ranch in Idaho.  


There were rivers to cross (none of us could swim) horses to ride, monkey bridges to build, frozen rivers to skate on, chores to do, and as many shenanigans as we could pull off without getting caught.   (And there were plenty.  Yes, there is a book in there.)  

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