I have been a dreamer for as long as I can remember. Trees in the backyard came to life with magical fruits and unicorns lived in mom and dad’s azaleas. Aside from drafting grant and project proposals for my husband’s growing art production company, I stopped writing for awhile and focused more on visual creativity. BUT… I am a storyteller; like my grandmother, like my dad…it’s just in my bones. Each illustration and painting I have done has a back story that remains largely untold. It occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, those stories are worth telling. I sat, one warm, almost-summer morning in far-south London’s Richmond Park in a little noon called the Poet’s Corner and wrote a few short blurbs about the various balloons my husband and I had created over the past few years. They were Templar Knights, pirates, and a cranky Scotsman. They were freedom fighters against slavery. Some were posh and flashy aristocrats. But I noticed that each of their stories wove into the next one. As I walked along the path toward the pond in the distance, followed closely by a noisy goose after my dried strawberry snacks, I decided that these characters deserved something much grander than a simple character description and rough sketch in a tattered notebook from the Cass Art clearance bin. They deserved something epic. That is the day that I decided I was an author.