Once Upon a Time, there was a little girl. 

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She was smart and fierce, with a skinned knee and a book shoved under her arm. All she wanted was to have adventures and tell stories. She'd climb trees and sword fight ghosts. She'd bike down to the river to sit on the bank and imagine mysterious mermaids had just swam by. She'd hide under the blankets with a flashlight to read the tale of how the Monster was saved by the Princess, one more time.

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Then she grew up. She fell in love. She had little ones of her own.

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She still had adventures, but they were more the variety to be found at the local park than traipsing across continents. She still told stories, but they were about clever foxes who tried to get out of brushing their teeth and little girls who danced with fairies. 

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Year by year the little ones grew. They grew taller and stronger and strangely stinkier by the season. Until one day she sat alone in a quiet cottage, and found herself daydreaming, again. 

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So she picked up a pen.