When I was a kid I used to hide in Grandma's back bedroom on a musty old chair and read her musty old Agatha Christie/Georgette Heyer paperbacks. It left me with a love of whodunits, and an interest in the old and musty. Sometime or other I started making up stories in my head, then later putting them on paper. Writing them turned out to be much harder, because they have to make sense. But I persevered, and now I've turned out novels, short stories, and rants. Whether or not they now make sense, only you can decide.