Writing a blog is something completely new to me. I enjoy writing stories which have their own heros and heroines, their own story lines, beginnings and (happy) endings, but writing a blog is not that easy, at least for me. English is not my mother tongue. I was born and grew up in Hungary. Growing up in Central Europe in the 1980s was so different from growing up nowadays. I was 9 years old at the time of the Revolution but all I remember is a happy, safe and relatively uneventful childhood. I lived in a small city with my family in the Eastern part of the country but I spent the summer holidays in my grandparents' cottage in a tiny village in rural Hungary. My cousin and I had wonderful days there. When I close my eyes I still remember the cows walking slowly home from the fields, the rooster's crow, the deep sound of the bell of the small church, the songs of the swallows. All familiar and sweet memories. It is fascinating and strange at the same time what sticks in our mind for decades, sometimes for the rest of our life. I cannot remember faces or names very well but I remember sounds, smells and even the lights during a particular time of the day. I was an only child for 19 years and so I was used to entertain myself. I cannot recall when the first tale or story came into my mind because it must have been before I could write. However, the first story that I wrote with an old typewriter of one of my grandparents was the back spine of The Lost Boy, the first novel in the Talendia series.