About the author

Janie Lynn Peterson

<p>I always believed that I would write a book.&#160; Story-lines flashed through my mind even as a child walking home from grade school on a frigid winter afternoon.&#160; I remembered the beauty of a newly fallen snow and it triggered my imagination to create stories about the neighborhoods I passed.&#160; In no time, I&#8217;d be home having entertained myself all the way.</p><p/><p>My sister reminded me that instead of reading stories to her when I babysat, I would make up stories.&#160; She never forgot the one about a young dancer who yearned for red ballet slippers but her family had no money.</p><p/><p>I rarely recorded my stories.&#160; When I did jot down an intriguing few paragraphs, there was no follow through.&#160; I saved my notes and moved on to a new interest.</p><p/><p>Suzonne of Twin Flames did not allow that.&#160; Scenes and dialog filled my brain.</p><p/><p>When I didn&#8217;t write it down, it continued to repeat until I did.&#160; However, there was a time limit.&#160; If after many opportunities, I had to write it down or run the risk of loosing it.&#160; It may or may not repeat weeks later.</p><p/><p>I could be driving down a highway with this unrelenting story having a field day in my thoughts.</p><p/><p>There were times when I pulled over to write as much as possible on a scrap of paper that happened to be in the console.&#160; Eventually I kept a spiral notebook on the passenger seat.&#160; I learned to take it everywhere: waiting rooms, shopping, the beach.&#160; I never knew when I would be given a thought that had to be captured.</p><p/><p>Many times I wrote the chapters until the wee hours, 3 or 4 AM.&#160; The next day after reading what I had written I said, &#8220;I wrote that?&#160; It&#8217;s really good!&#8221;</p>