As an author, I believe I see things a little different to most people. On the beach, most would see blue sky, sand, and waves. I see the retreating waves leaving a wash of gold in their wake, the rainbows in the bubbles of wash and the seagull hovering on an updraft of air. I believe authors collect and store such images deep inside their subconscious.
I have no doubt an active imagination begins in childhood. I find myself delving into my childhood memories many times during the creation of a story. Those images never leave us, or those wonderful times when we truly believed anything was possible. I'm sure if you asked one hundred people if they believed in faeries, you would be surprised at the result. I sure do . . . come on now ' fess up . . . do you believe in faeries?
I had the fortune to have a mother who told me wonderful bedtime stories. If ever I fell ill, she would send me little handmade cards signed 'Faerie Blue Eyes.' My fondest memory is pushing a doll's pram around the garden at three years old. The grounds of the Victorian three-story house had many pathways that weaved around rose gardens. Toward the back fence, blackberry bushes sat in clumps with spiky tendrils waiting to snag the clothes or pull the hair of each passerby. Beneath the ancient oak trees, acorns littered the ground and pointed brown toadstools rose from patches of bright, green moss.
"Don't disturb the faeries." Mother pointed at the toadstools. "That is a faerie circle. At night the faeries come out and dance in the moonlight."
I would walk by, then pause and look over my shoulder, in the hope of glimpsing an ethereal being. At night, I would often press my nose to the window and peer at the garden. How different the night is to a child. The moonlight diffuses colours to every shade of grey; long shadows change the familiar rose bushes to gargoyles ready to pounce with each passing breeze. Trees blackened by night, reach up to the sky waving in silent devotion. The sounds of insects echo through the night, or could that be the sweet voices of faerie song? An owl hoots, and then appears, wings spread wide against the full moon. Across the lawn, moonbeams bathe the grass transforming each drop of dew into a myriad of diamonds. Is it any wonder the faeries dance at night?
I have enjoyed living with the faeries, and now I can share my stories with you, I love it even more.
I have one copy of my YA Fantasy Romance, Don't Press Enter, to give away today for a random comment.
He comes with icy breath each night, to seduce and to confuse. The demon wants Julia, and his sensual pull entices yet terrifies. Alone in the world, Julia is beginning to doubt her sanity. Who should she tell? Who can she trust?
You can buy your copy of Don't Press Enter at: