I’m always crap at these. I’d much rather you read my tales than my personal story. I happen to think they’re far more interesting. But if you’re here, then maybe you want more than a yarn spun out for you. Maybe you want to know a little about the hand holding the pen. So here ya go…

I live in Florida, not far from Tampa. I’m close to beaches, close enough that hurricanes make me nervous. ┬áBut not nervous enough to move. Seriously, people, beaches.

I have two wonderful Norwegian Elkhounds who are both the joy of my life and the bane of my existence. And I am lucky enough to be married to the most charming, sexy, gorgeous partner a girl could ask for.

I’ve been putting pen to paper for as long as I can remember. My first memory of books was Christmas, 1975. I was five years old and my parents gave me a collection of children’s classics. Thirty hardcover books that smelled amazing. Black Beauty. The Man in the Iron Mask. Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Water Babies. I couldn’t read a single page, but I was so overwhelmed with the potential that I couldn’t stop touching them. The image of sitting in front of the Christmas tree, surrounded by books, is seared in my mind. I began dabbling not long after.

Writing seriously started in the sixth grade. We read A Wrinkle in Time and had to perform scenes from the book. We wrote short stories. We dove into the written word and rolled around. Seventh grade saw Honors English and Shakespeare. Our teacher took us to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream and I began to learn how you could play with words. How you could make them dance. We even got to write our own Greek myth (How the Rainbow Was Born, if you care to know).

I haven’t looked back since. I write to embrace my creative side. I write to purge hurt or anger. I write because I am inspired. Sometimes I write because I am bored. Mostly, I write because I need to.

Now go read something!