Adelaide Rose Winterstaar was born in a stone castle on the top of a hill surrounded by mountains. She spent most of her childhood staring out of windows and wishing that her life was so much other than it was.
As a young woman she pursued a career in psychotherapy but was far too sympathetic to her patients’ fantasies to be much help in dismantling them. She left her practice to travel the world and give herself over to a bohemian lifestyle embracing the crowning principles of truth, beauty, freedom and love. However, after many years, Winterstaar came to the conclusion that none of her romantic ideals could be realised in yet another lover’s arms or the shaky embrace of hallucinogenic drugs. So she retreated back to that stone castle in the mountains and created her own world instead.
Her interests include: the melancholy pondering on the fickleness of men’s hearts while wandering through the shadowy vales of her mountain home; writing endless reams of iambic poetry on the truth of freedom and the beauty of love then hiding the papers in odd places about her drafty old castle, or burning them to ashes in the kitchen fire, depending on her whim. She also likes collecting new ways of describing God, forging platonic relationships and learning new languages.
She dislikes tardiness in others, cats of all kinds and the intense awkwardness of the ‘morning after’ a tryst.
All of the books that Winterstaar bothers to publish are works of complete fiction. Though the author often wishes this wasn’t the case and dreams that one day she will, in fact, discover that it is her own life that is the fiction, and truly become a fictional author in her own right.
A.R. Winterstaar urges all of her readers to see out the truth, beauty, freedom and love in their own worlds and, if finding none of these things, beseeches them to invent their own.
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