I’ve been a storyteller ever since I was a little girl, but I only started writing stories in Mrs Morris’s fifth grade class. The majority of my stories were about a rich gentlemen who hired two grave robbers to procure for him corpses which he would transform into gustatory delights. Eyeball soup and brain jelly being two such delicacies. Ahem, let’s just say that someone liked grossing out her classmates.
My first “book,” published in Mrs Morris’s class, was about a girl who lived in the Sahara. The details are hazy--probably as hazy as the plot was in the story--but the gist of it was this: She had two horses, Starry Midnight, a black Appaloosa with white spots on its rump, and Scarlet Casanova, a dashing sorrel with a long, flaxen mane and tail. The girl rode Starry to the capital, with Scarlet in tow, where the prince invited her into his palace and fell in love with her. She gifted him with Scarlet Casanova.