Who is "Regan Claire?"
Who am I? An age-old question, pondered by... oh, you mean for real? Well, I'm Regan and I'm an author (pauses for chorus of "hello Regan.") I mostly write Fantasy and/or Coming of Age books, whenever my muse feels like cooperating--and often when she doesn't. Writing, for me, was always a "someday" plan. I always wanted to put pen to paper and create, and fifth grade saw my first few attempts at writing. It was a natural evolution; I loved to read, so loving to write just bloomed from that.
Books have been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. Some of my strongest childhood memories are of story-time before bed. It was a special time; my mom, as a single parent, worked long hours and it was guaranteed quality time for us. Most of you probably have similar memories of bedtime stories: excitedly picking out the night's book, having mom or dad sit in bed next to you with the book propped open, pointing to all the different pictures, and of course, asking over and over for one more page (or chapter, or book) before finally dropping off to sleep. As soon as I was able to, there was a role reversal in our household and it became my responsibility to read the night's tale to my mom. Every night I would proudly stammer my way through my Seuss collection; I felt cool when I'd brag to my friends about how I got to read the bedtime story.
It wasn't until I was a little older that I understood the real reason my mom made me read at night. My mom is dyslexic. After a 12 hour work day, reading anything was hard work for her, not to mention reading aloud. It wasn't that she wanted me to read because she didn't want to anymore; she wanted me to master a skill that would always be difficult for her; wanted me to really love the written word in ways that she just can't. Don't get me wrong, my mom likes to read, but for her it's not the relaxing pastime it is for so many; for my mom, and many others with this disorder, it takes conscience effort to translate all those letters into words, words into sentences, and sentences into something that makes sense. So, earlier than most, I learned to appreciate reading. I viewed each book I read as a gift. I read a lot, and enjoyed doing so.
I was 10 or 11 when I really started to love reading. I was a weird kid and as an only child I spent a lot of time around adults that spoke to me as an adult, cousins that I annoyed the heck out of, or other only-children who were equally strange and lacking in social skills. When we moved away to another state, going from coastal VA to Nashville, I went from kinda weird kid who hangs with other weird kids but is kind of tolerable to really strange new girl who talks kinda funny and acts kinda different, and of course this is right in time for middle school. The few friends I did make (very good friends, I might add) were in different schools or classes and I was lonely. Well, I was lonely until my wonderful aunt gave me something that changed my life. She gave me a book, and not just any book either; she gave me Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire. Since I already liked reading, and there was nothing else for me to do, I read it. Then I read the next book in the series, then the next and so on.
Most of the books I'd read before had come from the school library and reading her work was an eyeopening experience. I didn't know books could be so beautiful, that authors could create worlds so real you feel you've been there and characters you feel you've known your whole life. I had never seen the English language to powerfully used and I came to view writing as the art it truly is. Right after I was introduced to Anne Rice, I was given my first Harry Potter book, and let's just say that was the final nail in the coffin for me. Reading became a passion for me, and my books became my friends. They were friends that took me to different places, times, and worlds where anything was possible. They made me laugh, cry, and fall in love. They kept me company, and they kept me sane, letting me escape the world that my tween self felt so alone in, their worlds becoming more real than my own.
Eventually I got a little less awkward and made actual human friends, a group of people who thought my social ineptitude was quirky and fun. I started writing a little, encouraged by a couple of teachers who recognized my wild imagination as a blessing rather than an annoyance. It wasn't until after the birth of my second child, when I suddenly found myself a stay-at-home-mom and felt that loneliness creep back into my life that I once again found solace in imaginary worlds with one major difference: they were my worlds this time.
I published Gathering Water at the beginning of 2014, and my world--my real world--was forever changed. I used to lose myself in imaginary worlds, and somehow, as an adult, it's where I found myself. Now I can say real life has made me laugh, and cry, and fall in love (and that's what I love to write about, in that order, haha.)
Books have been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. Some of my strongest childhood memories are of story-time before bed. It was a special time; my mom, as a single parent, worked long hours and it was guaranteed quality time for us. Most of you probably have similar memories of bedtime stories: excitedly picking out the night's book, having mom or dad sit in bed next to you with the book propped open, pointing to all the different pictures, and of course, asking over and over for one more page (or chapter, or book) before finally dropping off to sleep. As soon as I was able to, there was a role reversal in our household and it became my responsibility to read the night's tale to my mom. Every night I would proudly stammer my way through my Seuss collection; I felt cool when I'd brag to my friends about how I got to read the bedtime story.
It wasn't until I was a little older that I understood the real reason my mom made me read at night. My mom is dyslexic. After a 12 hour work day, reading anything was hard work for her, not to mention reading aloud. It wasn't that she wanted me to read because she didn't want to anymore; she wanted me to master a skill that would always be difficult for her; wanted me to really love the written word in ways that she just can't. Don't get me wrong, my mom likes to read, but for her it's not the relaxing pastime it is for so many; for my mom, and many others with this disorder, it takes conscience effort to translate all those letters into words, words into sentences, and sentences into something that makes sense. So, earlier than most, I learned to appreciate reading. I viewed each book I read as a gift. I read a lot, and enjoyed doing so.
I was 10 or 11 when I really started to love reading. I was a weird kid and as an only child I spent a lot of time around adults that spoke to me as an adult, cousins that I annoyed the heck out of, or other only-children who were equally strange and lacking in social skills. When we moved away to another state, going from coastal VA to Nashville, I went from kinda weird kid who hangs with other weird kids but is kind of tolerable to really strange new girl who talks kinda funny and acts kinda different, and of course this is right in time for middle school. The few friends I did make (very good friends, I might add) were in different schools or classes and I was lonely. Well, I was lonely until my wonderful aunt gave me something that changed my life. She gave me a book, and not just any book either; she gave me Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire. Since I already liked reading, and there was nothing else for me to do, I read it. Then I read the next book in the series, then the next and so on.
Most of the books I'd read before had come from the school library and reading her work was an eyeopening experience. I didn't know books could be so beautiful, that authors could create worlds so real you feel you've been there and characters you feel you've known your whole life. I had never seen the English language to powerfully used and I came to view writing as the art it truly is. Right after I was introduced to Anne Rice, I was given my first Harry Potter book, and let's just say that was the final nail in the coffin for me. Reading became a passion for me, and my books became my friends. They were friends that took me to different places, times, and worlds where anything was possible. They made me laugh, cry, and fall in love. They kept me company, and they kept me sane, letting me escape the world that my tween self felt so alone in, their worlds becoming more real than my own.
Eventually I got a little less awkward and made actual human friends, a group of people who thought my social ineptitude was quirky and fun. I started writing a little, encouraged by a couple of teachers who recognized my wild imagination as a blessing rather than an annoyance. It wasn't until after the birth of my second child, when I suddenly found myself a stay-at-home-mom and felt that loneliness creep back into my life that I once again found solace in imaginary worlds with one major difference: they were my worlds this time.
I published Gathering Water at the beginning of 2014, and my world--my real world--was forever changed. I used to lose myself in imaginary worlds, and somehow, as an adult, it's where I found myself. Now I can say real life has made me laugh, and cry, and fall in love (and that's what I love to write about, in that order, haha.)