I’ve always known that when it came to stories, to read or to write, I was a fantasy kind of girl.  It’s all because of my dad.  My father was a voracious reader (and fast too!) and because of his job he had to fly a lot.  So he would come home from his business trips with big paper grocery sacks full of paperback books, and he’d spill them out over the coffee table for me and my older brother to squabble over.  Dad was pretty evenly divided between fantasy and science fiction, but early on I showed a preference for fantasy and my brother for science fiction, not that we wouldn’t read the other genres, we just knew what we wanted to go for first.  Because of my dad, I soared with Anne McCaffrey’s dragons, I skulked through the dirty alleyways of Robert Asprin’s Thieve’s World, I rode along for Garion’s epic adventure in David Eddings’s Belgariad, and I loved every single minute of it.  So it only seemed natural that I would write fantasy when I figured out that being a writer was all I ever wanted to be. 

But heroic (or high) fantasy, which is what made up the bulk of my dad’s fantasy reading, wasn’t quite the genre for me.  Sure, I’ve done a few pieces that worked quite well in that genre, but it’s not quite “home.”  Every writer has a genre that for him or her is home base.  I found my home in my late 20s, courtesy of a co-worker at my dayjob.  I’d already been writing in this genre for a little while because I’d figured out in grad school that stories without some kind of supernatural or mythical twist didn’t suit me.  But I didn’t know what to call it, it’s just what I did.  Then Sarah told me I should read Charles de Lint.  I was stunned.  Here was home.  Here was someone with enormous talent, and quite a bit of success, doing exactly the type of stuff I yearned to do.  I was completely hooked.  Welcome to urban fantasy, my genre of choice.

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