I was a reading girl, not a writer.
As a teenager, I dreamed of becoming a veterinarian after devouring James Herriot’s books. Later, inspired by Vladimir Sanin’s thrilling stories about Antarctica, I decided I would be a polar scientist—until I learned that, at the time, girls were not allowed there. Dream over.
No, I never dreamed of becoming a pirate—though pirate stories were among my greatest loves. I sailed through them happily, without the slightest urge to hoist a black flag. (Though now a pirate story lives in my head, and who knows—maybe one day I’ll write it and add it to that ever-growing heap of tales in the bookstores.) I couldn’t possibly count all the stories and authors that carried me away; there were simply too many, and I loved them all. And science fiction was always among my favorites.
For many years, writing had no place in my plans. My life was taken up by family troubles, professional struggles, a collapsing national economy, and the slow, exhausting business of getting through days when imagination felt like an unaffordable luxury.
Then it happened.
Perhaps one day I will be able to tell that story. But not now.
Writing, for me, is the return of my teenage years—the part of me that never quite grew up, the life I didn’t fully live, the feelings I didn’t have time to finish in childhood. I open them again, carefully, page by page. That is why I write for the young—and a little for myself, for the teenager still living somewhere inside me. I write the stories I would have wanted to read back then.
Welcome. And enjoy.
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