I miss the old writers. The Boris Karloffs, Rod Sterlings, and Richard Mathesons of the world. These were the writers I grew up with and saved my pennies for. I watched carefully when the delivery truck rolled up to our little drugstore where these books were sold. With bated breath, I would wait until the man who stacked the books left the store, and then I tip-toed over to the shelves, where my Twilight Zone and Thriller comic books sat. I savoured the colours and the pictures of these thick little books and knew my homework was probably going to be late. Every night perhaps!
When I got older and put my nursing cap away, I had lots of time and nothing to fill it with, as my daughter was gone, seeking her own adventures in Stephen King. (I dearly love him also.) I thought one day, why don't you just try to write a few stories of your own? I was so familiar with these authors. Hadn't I read them hundreds of times? But what about the twist I just lived for at the end? Could I pull it off? Well, there was one sure way to find out and I started to write. My own little group of critics liked the first one and were dazzled by the second one and I thought, I'm going to keep going. You see, I didn't know how to end these stories so I let them end themselves. And it worked!