I was sprouted in the 1970s. My early years are not much to speak of, but I spent a great amount of time reading, playing outside, and trying to find new and inventive ways to avoid school. I loved learning, but no one was teaching what I was interested in. As school progressed, I developed a passion for English, writing, and fiction, but few teachers willing to encourage such interests.In college, I discovered advanced English, medieval history, and mythology classes. However, I couldn't write a "normal" story to save my life, much to the initial dismay of my instructors. Once, I remember, my English instructor gave the class an assignment - write an inspirational short story, up to 8,000 words. Apparently my definition of inspirational doesn't match "normal." Imagine that. Everyone turned in something uplifting in nature -- restoring faith in humanity, Utopian society where everyone is happy, etc. Then came mine. To this day, I don't know where the undead came from, but everyone died in the end. Not very inspirational. Unless it inspired people to learn how to defend themselves from an onslaught of the supernatural. That could be.Then, I came upon my Holy Grail. Creative Writing 101. Now the voices in my head had a plan! They've been in charge ever since. I learned how to construct my "abnormal" stories, I learned how to edit, and I learned how to critique. That was the beginning of the end, so to speak. I consider myself lucky these voices quiet down a few hours every day so I can go to the day job. I think they've realized paying the bills and food are necessary to their survival. And I've realized letting my characters out to play keeps me from becoming a serial killer. All in all, the mostly perfect symbiotic relationship. It just means, I live with monsters. As long as they stay safely contained in closets, under the bed, and in the basement, I'm okay with that.