That day, I saw dinosaurs in the hills. Whizzing through the 210 freeway, my little seven-year old head poking out of the car window, I saw their ancient heads peek out of the dust. Alas! The pitiful hills, covered in dirt and rubbish, had for so long hidden the prehistoric giants within. I could hear their tired groans, groans that had been quelled for centuries by human activity, by machinery and electric cars. Each curve of those hills outlined their backs, their necks shaping the valleys and plains, and in the wide-eyed disbelief of my youth, I realized the world—my world—had been forever changed.

I went home that very day and found solace in the spaces of those white lined sheets of paper before me. As if soothsayers had confirmed their prophesies themselves, I was convicted in my responsibility, my vocation even, to tell the world the stories that had been forgotten, stories that had been buried like those colossal creatures beneath the muddy layers of the earth. And so I wrote. I wrote and wrote; I wrote stories that were magical, stories that were real. I wrote stories that I never knew could happen, but one thing was for certain: these were stories worth telling.

So began the life-long quest of the writer about whom you read. That fateful day marked the beginning of my love for stories: writing, reading, and above all, telling stories. At the tender age of seven, I had stumbled upon a world that had no clear boundaries, somewhere that I could indulge in my fanciful imagination without the worries of school-girl dilemmas and god-awful chores. Now, fifteen years later, I realize that I have joined the innumerable voices of story-telling, each one, in its own unique accord, worthily waiting to be heard.