ParaNormalRomance.org

Heather Davis

I have always told stories. My dad says that when I was in Kindergarten, I would tell him scintillating tales of crayon snatchers and mean lunch ladies. Long winded scintillating tales that lasted all the way from the school parking lot to our driveway. Sometimes at dinner during those years, my spaghetti would go ice cold because I’d be spinning a narrative instead of eating.

Some might say I was a little kid who never stopped talking, but I think it was the beginning of my love of story. And, well, maybe I just had had a lot of them.

The storytelling continued throughout my scholastic career—including my penning a play for the fourth grade about chickens going on strike right before Easter, writing stories condemning vandalism for the middle school newspaper, and contributing enigmatic poems about emotional nakedness to my high school’s literary magazine. Eek! I know, right?

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