Narratives, I find, are at the core of what drives us as human beings. In how our bodies sashay or lumber across the environment. In the way we let words glide smoothly or fall half-assed from our tongues. In the climaxing music we play for our own pleasure and within the company of an engaged crowd. We all long to tell the tales our lives have written day by day between the mundane and the manic or to retell those of others far too tempting to be kept secret. And a narrative would be incomplete without a set of dazzling, larger-than-life characters ready to take you by the hand and whisk you into their story. These actors are everywhere in daily life, unseen gems in a field of modern repetition. The strange cat-lady who names her cats after Shakespearean characters. The teenage skateboarder who secretly writes the most tender of sonnets for his controversial love interest. The child who sets about the world in a wheelchair with the casual boldness of Han Solo. I aim to tell stories to the young minds in the world, and those who have refused to completely grow up. Perhaps the harshest critics, perhaps the most brilliant, there is nothing more exciting than watching a child, eyes enormous with the question “and then what happened?!” as they participate in humankind’s most essential ritual: Storytelling. Rachael lives with her three rats, Gibbs, Dinozzo, McGee and Archer in Minneapolis, Minnesota, although occasionally she can be found traversing time and space in the TARDIS.
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