She lived in a mansion in Alameda California; I remember the 2 lions that were perched to either side of the stairs leading up to a large covered patio and double doors. The living room looked up 3 stories to a glass roof my grandfather never got used to living on land and died shortly after he lost his clipper ship. I am still looking up his name and the name of his ship. I have only my memories, and they are old.
I have not spoken with my father in 44 years, my parents separated when I was 9-years old and I never saw my Grandmother again. Or spoke with my father; I have spent most of my life trying to forget him and what he did. My father was a convicted pedophile and we were his favorite victims, but this is not his story someday maybe I will let that demon out, but not today.
I started writing 2 years ago short stories at first then they got longer and now my first book is at 60,000 words and in its final edit (I hope) I itch to go on writing in the 2ed and 3rd books there will be 4 or 5 of them possible more. My writing is a driven thing, I must tell my stories and I have to be very careful not to let them get dark. I want my books to be read by young adults and read to young children, as a child I often escaped into a fairytale world of talking animals and wonderful people. Events that had happy endings, I could travel anywhere on magical dragons or sit for hours talking with a cat or rat.
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