I always believed that I would write a book.  Story-lines flashed through my mind even as a child walking home from grade school on a frigid winter afternoon.  I remembered the beauty of a newly fallen snow and it triggered my imagination to create stories about the neighborhoods I passed.  In no time, I’d be home having entertained myself all the way.

My sister reminded me that instead of reading stories to her when I babysat, I would make up stories.  She never forgot the one about a young dancer who yearned for red ballet slippers but her family had no money.

I rarely recorded my stories.  When I did jot down an intriguing few paragraphs, there was no follow through.  I saved my notes and moved on to a new interest.

Suzonne of Twin Flames did not allow that.  Scenes and dialog filled my brain.

When I didn’t write it down, it continued to repeat until I did.  However, there was a time limit.  If after many opportunities, I had to write it down or run the risk of loosing it.  It may or may not repeat weeks later.

I could be driving down a highway with this unrelenting story having a field day in my thoughts.

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.  Eventually I kept a spiral notebook on the passenger seat.  I learned to take it everywhere: waiting rooms, shopping, the beach.  I never knew when I would be given a thought that had to be captured.

Many times I wrote the chapters until the wee hours, 3 or 4 AM.  The next day after reading what I had written I said, “I wrote that?  It’s really good!”