About Bonnie K.T. Dillabough

My mother taught me to read. She didn’t mean to…it just kind of happened.

We didn’t have much money. She was the navy wife of a low-ranking seaman and that meant scrimping and saving and doing without a lot of things.

My dad was usually “on ship” which meant he would be gone for months at a time. The small allotment he gave her, courtesy of the navy was barely enough to stretch for our tiny apartment, food and the coin laundromat where we washed our clothes once a week.

We didn’t own a vehicle, nor did the tiny budget stretch as far as the cost of bus fare, so the map of our activities only went as far as she could walk with a toddler and a four year old in tow. This meant we spent our time in the neighborhood park, at home with coloring books and children’s building blocks. or on trips to our local library.

My mother had consistently read to her babies while we were yet in the womb. She believed that even before birth humans have the capacity to enjoy the cadence and even the intention of well written words.

She loved to read and thanks to her precious library card we would come home from each library visit laden with treasures; books for her and books for us. Each new book we borrowed was a key to adventure and a comfort when things were otherwise perhaps not so comfy or abundant as she would have liked for her and her children.

The magic of words and books and libraries still brings joy to my heart. I am sure part of that enthusiasm is related to the calm that always came over my mom when we walked in the big double doors.

One of my earliest happy memories centers around me sitting in the bright San Diego sun on the small front porch of our home with a book in my lap. I recall opening a new book with anticipation, inhaling the amazing aroma of ink and paper and turning the pages with reverence, even at that young age.

I don’t actually remember my mom trying to teach me phonics or spelling or how to read, but by the time I got to kindergarten I was already reading on my own at a second grade level.

Because of this we found ourselves sitting around one of those little kindergarten crafting tables, my mom in one of the child-sized chairs facing a furious teacher. “What am I supposed to teach her?” she ranted. “Why didn’t you leave her education to a professional? Who knows what kind of damage you may have done?”

My mom sat there, her head down and tears in her eyes. “I didn’t know. I didn’t do anything. Just read to her and let her look at the books on her own. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

I don’t remember how that meeting ended. I just remember sitting there, looking back and forth as the grownups continued their not-so-friendly conversation and the sadness in my mother’s eyes.

I do remember that I was very bad at some things in kindergarten, for instance I could never seem to get the hang of cutting a circle out of paper. As I tried to make the edges even it just kept getting smaller and smaller until at last it wasn’t much more than a dot.

But when it came to reading and writing, I enjoyed every minute of it throughout my life. My mother died of alzheimer’s and dementia and never realized I had written my first novel two weeks before my 64th birthday. But I know somewhere her spirit looks down and is smiling.

My mother didn’t have much. We didn’t have fancy clothes and we didn’t go to theme parks or carnivals or out to eat. But what she gave me were the most valuable gifts any human can give. First her love, attention and sacrifice and second the key to learning and expressing my thoughts.  I will be forever grateful for that blessing.

At 16 years old I started having a recurring dream that pestered me most of my life. Time and time again I would discuss the dream with people I thought were wiser than me and time and time again the repeated answer came, “No idea. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

At age 63 after having the dream once again I decided that maybe if I wrote it down it might leave me alone. I did so and filed it on my desktop, but didn’t think of it again until I started hanging out with published authors.

Mercedes S. Lackey told me at one point, when I confessed I had often considered writing a book, “Put your butt in the chair and write!” It was some of the best advice I had ever gotten.

In search of material to write about I stumbled upon that dusty text file about my dream and the rest, as they say, is history. From that dream came the science fiction – fantasy series “The Dimensional Alliance” beginning with “The House on Infinity Loop”. Now, I find myself grateful for the events leading up to setting myself upon this path.My mother taught me to read. She didn’t mean to…it just kind of happened.

We didn’t have much money. She was the navy wife of a low-ranking seaman, and that meant scrimping and saving and doing without a lot of things.

My dad was usually “on ship,” which meant he would be gone for months at a time. The small allotment he gave her, courtesy of the navy, was barely enough to stretch for our tiny apartment, food, and the coin laundromat where we washed our clothes once a week.

We didn’t own a vehicle, nor did the tiny budget stretch as far as the cost of bus fare, so the map of our activities only went as far as she could walk with a toddler and a four-year-old in tow. This meant we spent our time in the neighborhood park, at home with coloring books and children’s building blocks, or on trips to our local library.

My mother had consistently read to her babies while we were yet in the womb. She believed that even before birth humans have the capacity to enjoy the cadence and in the intention of well written words.

She loved to read and thanks to her precious library card we would come home from each library visit laden with treasures; books for her and books for us. Each new book we borrowed was a key to adventure and a comfort when things were otherwise perhaps not so comfy or abundant as she would have liked for her and her children.

The magic of words and books and libraries still brings joy to my heart. I am sure part of that enthusiasm is related to the calm that always came over my mom when we walked in the big double doors.

One of my earliest happy memories centers around me sitting in the bright San Diego sun on the small front porch of our home with a book in my lap. I recall opening a new book with anticipation, inhaling the amazing aroma of ink and paper and turning the pages with reverence, even at that young age.

I don’t actually remember my mom trying to teach me phonics or spelling or how to read, but by the time I got to kindergarten I was already reading on my own at a second-grade level.

Because of this we found ourselves sitting around one of those little kindergarten crafting tables, my mom in one of the child-sized chairs facing a furious teacher. “What am I supposed to teach her?” she ranted. “Why didn’t you leave her education to a professional? Who knows what kind of damage you may have done?”

My mom sat there, her head down and tears in her eyes. “I didn’t know. I didn’t do anything. Just read to her and let her look at the books on her own. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

I don’t remember how that meeting ended. I just remember sitting there, looking back and forth as the grownups continued their not-so-friendly conversation and the sadness in my mother’s eyes.

I do remember that I was very bad at some things in kindergarten; for instance, I could never seem to get the hang of cutting a circle out of paper. As I tried to make the edges even it just kept getting smaller and smaller until at last it wasn’t much more than a dot.

But when it came to reading and writing, I enjoyed every minute of it throughout my life. My mother died of Alzheimer’s and dementia and never realized I had written my first novel two weeks before my 64th birthday. But I know somewhere her spirit looks down and is smiling.

My mother didn’t have much. We didn’t have fancy clothes, and we didn’t go to theme parks or carnivals or out to eat. But what she gave me were the most valuable gifts any human can give. First, her love, attention, and sacrifice; and second, the key to learning and expressing my thoughts.  I will be forever grateful for that blessing.

At 16 years old, I started having a recurring dream that pestered me most of my life. Time and time again I would discuss the dream with people I thought were wiser than me, and time and time again the repeated answer came, “No idea. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

At age 63, after having the dream once again, I decided that maybe if I wrote it down it might leave me alone. I did so and filed it on my desktop, but didn’t think of it again until I started hanging out with published authors.

When at one point I confessed to Mercedes S. Lackey that I had often considered writing a book, she told me, “Put your butt in the chair and write!” It was some of the best advice I had ever gotten.

In search of material to write about, I stumbled upon that dusty text file about my dream. And the rest, as they say, is history. From that dream came the science fiction/fantasy series, “The Dimensional Alliance,” beginning with The House on Infinity Loop. Now, I find myself grateful for the events leading up to setting myself upon this path.