Back when I was three, I wanted to be a bride when I grew up. I didn’t actually know what one was. I thought of them as fairy princesses who lived in the real world.

By second grade, all my What I Want to be When I Grow Up compositions began with “I’m going to be an artist.” I filled notebooks with childish drawings of characters and scenes from the stories in my mind. As I grew, the plots thickened and the drawings became more skilled. I learned to translate the world into two dimensions with markers, ink, pencils and charcoal. But I still forced myself onto carnival rides that went upside down, or jumped off high places into water, telling myself a writer needs wide experiences. The stories hadn’t stopped.

Writing? Art? It came time to choose. I went to art school.

Then I became a bride, a mom, an enamelist who did weekend art shows, a line cook. I signed with an agent, placing my enamelwork in east coast gift galleries. Upped my baking skills to the professional level. Still, putting two young girls to bed, I’d lie down on the floor of their room in the dark and say “Give me three.” It could be names, places, objects, animals. It didn’t matter what. I took three words and wove them into a bedtime story, because stories never stop.

I opened a cafe, earned a black belt, became a pastry chef with a solid reputation. Barely had time for art. And still, the stories whispered, “You never had to choose. Do it all.”

My first throw-away novel was an awful tale of people who got locked in a gated community for three weeks when the power went down after a hurricane. The characters wouldn’t listen to me. It was a full-on mutiny. I was hooked.

I still make dessert for a living. I still do enamelwork. And I write, because stories never stop.