Once upon a time—wait, that isn’t right. Way too fairy-tale like, I get it. Not really my style or yours. Bear with me.
In the year nineteen ninety… Nope, that’s not it either.
Back in the day, some time ago, in a place that isn’t really relevant to anything, there was a little girl. She was given a diary and told she could write anything she wanted inside. The stories were wildly imaginative about things that only a five-year-old knows.
The girl grew and she had a dream—that was relative. She was going to be a doctor or a counselor or a writer. Maybe all three. She was going to get married young and have five well-mannered children.
And then she grew up—like bam—right from fifteen to thirty-five. One day. Boom! And she got married and she had a child—not five—just one, well before the age of thirty-five.
She spent some time working in the healthcare field and she realized she’d be a terrible counselor and probably an even worse doctor.
And then she wrote some books. In those books her characters could be anything. Doctors, lawyers, cops, moms, and dads. The sky was the limit.
And now here we are.
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