Some amazing new kids have made themselves at home in my brain. Each one clamors for individual attention. They want to be recognized, commiserated with, understood and loved. They need to make sense of their world and how they fit into it.

They speak to me and to each other in my dreams. When I awake, I remember snippets, but have lost the richness of the interaction. I try to recapture it, with limited success. They’ll fill it in for me later.

As I drive, one interrupts with an observation, and another points out a unique color in the sky.  I cannot write while driving. I ask them to remember, because I know I won’t.

While I’m showering, I see a scene as it happens. The action plays out in my mind and I forget to shave one leg in my hurry to get to the computer. Here I am, hair dripping wet, hurriedly dressed, no makeup, unwilling to move to the kitchen for some breakfast.

They have names, these characters, and personalities; histories, and gifts. In fact, they’ve given me their names. I see their faces. When I get an attribute wrong, they correct me. I’m their mouthpiece. My hands will craft it, but the story is theirs to tell. I’m only the reporter – the scribe.

Is this what it’s like to write fiction? I don’t know how it will unfold, but I now know that it will. The plot thickens, as they say, and I see obstacles and conflicts coming. My characters are smart and they will have help. The world needs saving, and they are the only ones who can do it. I believe in them.

The Creator of the Universe has given me this new family in my head, as if we don’t already have enough children and grandchildren. Truth be told, we don’t. There is always room for more.

My love of reading developed from the life God gave me as a military Brat growing up overseas. I started writing late in life, but now that the Lord has unwrapped this new gift, I can’t stop.

My characters are alive and growing. I can hardly wait to read their story.