This is the story of a dreamer. It is the story of a child who grows into a girl who grows into a woman, and it is the story of a world that becomes what it has always been and yet more. This story is not fiction, but still is a kind of fantasy, the kind that passes through the mind as you stare glisten-eyed at a waterfall or a city swirled with lights and possibilities. It tells what truth it can, what lies it must, and what the mind of its writer dreams.
This story doesn't guarantee a happy ending, or any ending at all. In fact, I'll probably have stopped writing, gone on to somewhere else, or gotten so wrapped up in living that writing a life no longer holds the same mystique before "happily ever after" is even hinted at. That's life--endings don't really happen, just a passage onto something the viewer can't witness.
This story is a kind of poetry, a kind of memoir, and a kind of something I've never read before. It will take a live's truth and place it onto a character, so that its unspeakable, unlivable (at least by someone who's never lived it) beauty may be spoken and for a time seen in your own life.
This is a story of the world, those who live in it, the fantasies they build, and the changes they never witness, whose foreshadowing can't be seen until long after the actual event. Most of all, though, this is my story.
