I think my writing was innate. Being so painfully shy and introverted as a child, as well as an extreme thinker with a hyperactive imagination, it seems befitting. It became such a powerful passion early on in life.

The fear and anxiety of baring my soul is transcended by the thrill and honor and wonderfulness of being able to touch and affect so many people... having people look into my mind, my imagination... into my heart and soul.

As someone who craves the fetal position, I empathize with this sentiment. I'm just so glad I took the risk so early on in life.

Dreams. Dreams induce me. Seduce me. My spirit is taken by the dark and surreal and beautiful and seraphic-winged in ethereal heaven and bleeding and burning stygian vortex images that haunt me and have been doing so since early childhood.

Birth. That's when I started penning my soul. Seriously, there was no transition. Only the natural process, unfolding and growth of my evolution. Everything I do in life is one hundred percent heartfelt at the onset... or onslaught, as the case may be.

I was the quintessence of sweetness and innocence as an Alice in Wonderland-ish little girl, so I guess no one ever expected such darkness from me.

Nothing beats a haunted moonlit night on All hallows Eve... And on this fatal night, at this witching time, the starless sky laments black and unmoving. The somber hues of an ominous, dark forest are suddenly illuminated under the emerging face of the full moon.

It is normal for me to wake and find myself writing in the dark... or to be out of my tomb, caught in an unearthly world, alive with the images that haunt me.

I've always found it easy and natural and, more importantly, necessary to articulate thoughts and feelings, and fierce emotions, through the written word. Fantasy and horror came to me when I was very young.

Nothing is more dreadful in life than the profound thought that death may only greet you with eternal nothingness.