Megan Allen

I’ve been writing stories since I was about seven. In fact, that’s when I created the first new version of the frog story to come along in years. One where it’s the frog seeking the princess instead of the princess seeking her prince. It’s very amphibiotic. She screams when he tries to kiss her, but he jumps down her bra and mingles with her boobs. My father was a bit uncomfortable with that, but in the end, the princess became a frog, so all ended well for the critters back at the pond. They even danced a little as I remember.

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That pretty well sums up me as a writer. I like to change things up. And all my life I’ve railed against the premise that beauty begets happiness, or that one must possess a magic lamp or magic beans or long, golden tresses to find life’s ultimate fulfillment. Screw that. Happiness is not ambiguous. It sits there as a living thing, to be cherished like the golden egg. Or you can slice open the damn goose to search for more, and wind up bloodied and hopeless, and sad.