I have always been a storyteller. Even before I could write my name, I could tell a good tale. And I told them all the time. As a preschooler, I told my neighbors all about my three-legged cat named Spot. In kindergarten, I told my classmates about the ghost that lived in my attic. And in first grade I told my teacher, Miss Harbart, all about my familys trip to Paris, France.

I told such a good story that people always thought I was telling the truth. But I wasnt. I didnt have a three-legged cat or a ghost in my attic, and Id certainly never been to Paris, France. I simply enjoyed telling a good story... and seeing my listeners reaction.

Sure, some people might have said I was a seven-year old fibber. But not my parents. Instead of calling my stories fibs they called them imaginative. They encouraged me to put my stories down on paper. I did. And amazingly, once I began writing, I couldnt stop. I filled notebook after notebook with stories, poems, plays. I still have many of those notebooks. Theyre precious to me because they are a record of my writing life from elementary school on.

In second grade, I discovered a passion for language. I can still remember the day my teacher, Miss Johnson, held up a horn-shaped basket filled with papier-mache pumpkins and asked the class to repeat the word cornucopia. I said it again and again, tasted the word on my lips. I tested it on my ears. That afternoon, I skipped all the way home from school chanting, Cornucopia! Cornucopia! From then on, I really began listening to words—to the sounds they made, and the way they were used, and how they made me feel. I longed to put them together in ways that were beautiful, and yet told a story.

As I grew, I continued to write stories. But I never really thought of becoming an author. Instead, I went to college where I discovered yet another passion—history. I didnt realize it then, but studying history is really just an extension of my love of stories. Afte