Author has written 20 stories for DarkWing Duck, Tale Spin, Lord of the Rings, and House, M.D..
"Merlynnod: an archaic form of Welsh vernacular used to refer to a large pony or small horse of hardy type and substance, more commonly known in present times as a Welsh Cob."
"Chasing Windmills: Someone who pursues after folly, chasing the unattainable, searching always for things that are forever beyond reach."
I chase windmills.
I write stories with happy endings...I believe in a world of my own creation and design, a world where "The End" has no sway and no power over those in its care. A place where I can write and create and somehow carry with me a place where no-one ever has to die...and no one is ever left behind.
I know of pain and joy and laughter and hurt, I know of loss and courage and the will to continue forward. I know of mistakes and those decisions that I am so very glad I had the forsight or luck to make.
I know the mysteries of the great Lantern Waste, and the power and majesty of a world dubbed Narnia...
I know the stories of tattered rabbits who long to become real, and the tales of little mice who find the elusive bit of twist needed for the completion of a grand and beautiful coat.
I believe in sunny afternoons and the chimes of clocktower bells at the University. I believe in children and the magic they imbue the world about them with. I believe in contentment born of love and work and time; but I also know of bone-wracking loneliness that is akin to a misery so acute as to nearly be physically painful.
I wish on stars and I talk to animals. I watch the clouds scudd by overhead, and fancy shapes in the fluffy whiteness above set in skies of impossibly cerulean blue.
I believe in Happily Ever Afters that are happy enough and good enough, and I wonder what happens after "The End". What about the arguments over the washing up? What about the lazy days spent lolling about doing nothing much? What about the lives and futures and histories that come before, and continue ever afterward even though my bit of the story has ended?
I see the world as it is, and I see the world as it might be...and I write the stories that somehow help to fill the chasm that lies between.
I write stories to the children I may never have, but that have been given lives and dreams and shape and form in my mind. I write stories to bits of shadow and whimsey, and share them with children who are real and whole and alive in the here and now.
Because bright, young smiles, muddy shoe laces, bedtime stories, quiet afternoons spent with a small child curled against me as we read the stories that never lose their magic; and the feel of soft fingers in my own make my world go 'round, and the ride worth the trouble.
I remember their names, their faces, the smiles and the tears and the everyday wonder of their lives. They grow up and leave me behind, but I remember them as they were, and the shades of their childhood haunt my willing imagination.
I know about the edges, those places on the borders of a life, between what has been, and what will someday be. I know about the flimsy, pale curtain that divides death from love, and how easily and often that curtain is sometimes breached.
And so I chase the windmills...
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