C.M. Gilbreth grew up in a large, gregarious immediate family. She escaped by reading authors like J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and Catherine Marshall. She studied English literature but tended to read everything by authors she liked while minimizing efforts in other classes.
Her reading never stopped into adulthood. One could say it was an addiction. The reading fed dreams. The dreams led to stories. The stories drove her to writing.
Writing helped her to get a job. Imagination helped her to solve problems and write nonfiction in the real world. Writing paid bills. Years later, the stories grew, blossomed, and ripened.
This story came differently than the others. Whole chapters dropped into her imagination with fully formed characters. The subject matter, which she had ignored for more than forty-five years, now gripped her imagination.
Gilbreth knew this story was different from all others. It demanded to be told. The rest you know.
