I can't remember a time when I didn't love words. As much as I loved running around and riding my bike when I was younger, you'd be as likely to find me curled up behind a beloved book - I was probably the first child in the history of ever (okay, maybe not) whose parents actually had to tell the librarians to DISCOURAGE me from borrowing so much. When I was a child, even before I understood what all the black squiggly lines meant, my mother would read to me. When we'd exhausted all the stories at home, she'd make up new ones - lots and lots of exciting stories, with me (not knowing this) as the protagonist more often than not. Is it any wonder that I grew up to be such a lover of words? I remember reading Robin Cooks (random, yes), and the Lord of the Rings (now there's another timeless love affair) all before I turned 10, and always being left with this bittersweet feeling whenever the books ended. It has always fascinated me how I can live many lives, be many...