Being that I was a shy child, I’d always escaped into books to soothe myself after experiencing a socially awkward or painful situation. As I grew older, I often fantasized different outcomes for such situations, such as smart remarks I could have said (the first of many rewrites). I loved writing letters to relatives overseas and thought myself quite good at it. But writing actual stories didn’t occur to me until I’d read the book Women Who Run with the Wolves, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes. As if a creative dam had broken, after I’d finished the book, I awoke the next morning from a vivid dream, went to my computer, and began to write a story. At first, writing stories was just a creative outlet. While I knew I needed to learn more about the craft of writing, I finally dared to have someone else read what I’d written. From the positive feedback, I felt encouraged enough to keep at it. After I had a dream about a man who appeared to be made from plant materials, I wrote a few paragraphs of my impressions. Then I went back to the story I’d been writing at the time and forgot…