So. You’re here because you want to know a little bit about me, huh? Aw, shucks. I’ll try not to blush.

Where do I begin?

A long time ago, before I knew how to read and write, I told stories. Growing up with a Geologist as a father, my family spent a lot of time on the road, going from one remote place to another. To kill the time, and to keep my younger brother and sister entertained, I used to make up stories. One day, I decided to kill off a main character - a little boy who was fighting an evil robot head in a fish bowl (Hey. Don’t judge. I was six.). My siblings burst into tears. They wouldn’t stop sobbing until our mother made me bring the character back to life. At first, indignant anger swelled in my six-year-old chest. This was my story. Why should I have to change it? Then I realized something.

My siblings were crying over some make-believe person. This was power. Power, I say. POWER! And in the hands of a six year old. The world was mine to toy with. At least, the world of four people stuck in the car with me for a three-hour long drive. Mwahahahaha!

(I mean, really. Writers have twisted hearts. We want you to feel good and laugh, sure, but we also want you to cry. We want fear to creep behind you as you turn the page. We plot for the pain of unrequited love to keep you from sleep at night. We make characters designed to elicit horrific emotional trauma before we give you that huge dopamine hit of a happy ending, if you’re lucky. I mean, seriously. If we did that to people in real life instead of on the page, we’d get locked up. Normal people don’t do that to other people. I’m not saying writers are evil. Just a little crazy. We do listen to the voices in our heads, after all.)

I digress. Okay, I’m hitting fast-forward. I wrote stories all through my childhood, captivating friends, family and teachers alike. I had planned to go to college to become a writer when well-meaning adults told me that, if I did, I’d be asking if you want fries with that for the rest of my life. They believed a creative writing degree would not lead to a career. I believed them. So, I majored in marketing instead. Figured I’d need to know how to advertise my books one day when I went back to writing. Now let’s fast-forward through 15+ years of watching my dream slip away while implementing advertising plans for clients instead of myself. Sure, I still wrote here and there to keep my sanity (ha - a sane writer?), but I wasn’t doing anything with it. My dream was in the backseat, and I hated myself for it.

Along the way, I got married. Then we got pregnant. On maternity leave, holding my new baby in my arms, I reflected on what I wanted my son to learn from my actions. Did I want him to feel like he had to put his dreams aside, wear the corporate mask and settle for something that would pay the bills but not make him happy? Or did I want him to see that, if you work hard, you really could make your dreams come true?

With the support of my husband, I began my writer’s journey. I joined David Farland’s Apex writers group then, later, became a wolf in Wulf Moon’s Wulf Pack writers group. I started going to writer’s conferences, like Superstars. I learned so much. I am still learning so much. A writer’s journey is like no other.

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