Twenty years is a long time for a dream to sleep. Occasionally my dream would murmur little poems in its slumber or perhaps a paragraph or two of a story. But now, after twenty years of sleeping the dream is slowly awakening to a new day. A new and brilliant light has begun to shine through the dark windows, and piercing rays are connecting with the remnants of a girlhood fantasy. Me? A writer? After twenty years of thinking and dreaming about it? Perhaps it might be so.