D. D. Falvo was born with an unusual condition. “The child floats through windows and locked keyholes,” her father said. After a thorough examination, the doctor said, “Her imagination is too big for her body. Much of it clings to the outside, absorbing the environment. I’m afraid the energy consumption will make her a bit of a lightweight.” He prescribed shoes of lead, but Denise wanted Dorothy’s. She cried and pulled them off when no one was looking. “This isn’t working,” her mother complained. “She toddled across a busy street today and wandered two blocks down.” “You need to feed her books,” Grandmother said, and each night began to read to her aloud. With each tale the need for something beyond herself was filled, and the seeds of a writer were grounded in fertile soil.
Denise writes from the attic of a 100-year-old house, where she resides with her family, her best friend/husband, two daughters, a sassy cat, and the ghost of a stubborn Irish Setter. Currently, she and the muse are hard at work on the first volume of her fantasy epic, StarDust. She also loves gardening barefoot, walking in snowfalls, and eating fruit salad with chopsticks.