Like so many others, I’ve been caught by the Olympic fever.  Each night my family and I sit in our living room and watch athletes do the impossible.  I gasp in amazement as they fly down the slopes…dance on the ice…flip and twirl through the air.  But as much as their individual performances captivate me, I find myself wondering about when they dared to dream of becoming an Olympic athlete.  And, more importantly, when they dared to voice that dream. Dreaming is easy.  Safe.  In our minds we can envision ourselves doing anything, being anyone.  But when you dare to voice your dream…oh, man.  Scary stuff indeed. I still remember the moment I discovered my first romance novel.  I was at my Aunt Patsy’s house and a copy of The Flame and the Flower by Kathleen Woodiwiss was on the nightstand next to the guest bed.  That night, while everyone else was sleeping, I sat in the window seat and with lightning illuminating the dark sky, I devoured that book.  The passion, the heartache, the longing…  When I reached the end, I realized my life would never be the same.  Now, I not only knew what genre I wanted to…