For me that is. Maybe not for you. Probably not for you. Well, at least you’re an explorer, because you’re here, on my page, looking for something …exciting? Different? Fun? New?
I hope that you’ll find it here. What you’re looking for. That we can start a relationship. Something you’ll look forward to. Something I can be a part of.
Hi, by the way. I’m Heather. I’m a writer. Actually, I’m more of a story teller. Really I’d much rather talk to you than write to you, but that’s just not possible. So I’ll see what I can do here. To cultivate our connection.
Growing up, I had a super active imagination. Every book I read, every tale I heard, every TV show I watched, contributed another piece to the ever-changing story that played constantly in my head. As soon as I was old enough to step away from my parents, I was looking for a new adventure. I loved to perform, to sing, to dance, to capture an audience. And most of all, I loved stories.
I could be the listener or the teller, an active participant or a silent sponge, it didn’t matter. Words were magic, enchanting and mesmerizing. Words were power, transfixing and captivating. Words were freedom, exhilarating and liberating.
Even as a child, I loved to spin a tale. To weave the characters and facts and places and emotions throughout an intricate web that became my own little world. For a while, I was pretty sure that my mom was actually a secret circus performer at night (why else was it so important for my brother and sister and me to all be in bed and asleep by 8:30?) and that when my dad left “for work” during the day he fought giant monsters from other planets (he was super strong and could run on tall, metal stilts, and when he got home he was always filthy, covered in thick, white “mud,” or was it really alien blood?).
Most days, my brother and I would hike up the “mountain” behind our house, and build forts, holding off pirates, or Indians, or thieves. We hurdled quick sand (okay, cow pies), chased bandits (baby calves), ran for our lives from the cops (mama cows), and threw rocks at rattlesnakes (no, really, this one is true – it was northern Idaho). My brother was the best side kick ever because he always let me tell the story, let me narrate our adventure as it happened. Wild-eyed, mussed-up hair, dirty, and exhausted, we’d come back home when it started to get dark.
And I grew older, I began to understand the influence of being well-spoken. I could read a crowd, imagining what they would like, what would hold their attention, how they would react. I would draw from my imagination, from my thousands of stories, to make people laugh, to cry, to get angry, …to act. I realized that people can share a powerful, single vision guided by a beautifully told story.
As an adult, I’ve learned to appreciate the power of writing. It’s much harder than speaking. Creating that same strength of voice on paper that whips up a frenzy in a crowd. Or the softness of a gentle whisper shared with someone you love. Or that good laughter that makes you double over and hold your stomach because you just can’t stop. Or the tears that come when pain seeps in and overwhelms you. Authors that can make you feel emotions so forcefully that you feel like you’re not in control – anger, hatred, pity, sorrow, jealousy, fear …or entrance you in a special moment – a shared smile, a tender touch, a soft kiss – those are the incredible story tellers who change our lives.
That’s my hope. My desire. My dream. My goal. To become one of the story tellers who doesn’t have to say a word to speak to you. To influence you. To give you something beautiful that becomes a piece in the ever-changing story in your head.