I write young adult novels. Please check out my books by clicking on the tag above.

After mastering The Little Red Hen, my five-year-old self recognized the power of reading.  No longer must I wait to have stories read to me! I could read them myself!

In second grade, my teacher put pictures on the board to help us write. I wrote fascinating stories about “chrains roling ovr the hils.” Ta da! My love of imaginative writing began.

Growing up I loved the books of Francis Hodgsen Burnett, Beverly Cleary (a dawnzer? Yes, I knew what it was like to be misunderstood, too), Edward Eager (magic!) and Roald Dahl (where I learned grossness could be funny. Snozzcumbers or frobscottle, anyone?). As a teen I read books by Judy Blume, Lois Duncan, and Paula Danzinger, writers who portrayed teen angst in all its glory. In high school I was introduced to classics: Faulkner and Shakespeare were my favorites. I also discovered contemporary authors like Toni Morrisson and Truman Capote.

Why am I talking about reading so much? Because it is what made me a writer. Hearing stories since I was very young created my love for the written word. I love words. Yes, big, fat dictionaries bring me to my knees.

I can’t say anything about the connection between reading and writing that hasn’t already been said, and said better than I could; I just know first hand of its truth. To this day, reading good books is like getting a kick in the writerly pants, inspiring me to write better, stronger.

I’ve kept a journal since I was seven-years-old (that second grade teacher, again!). It’s painful rereading the stuff from when I was younger; I had so many embarrassingly romantic ideas that seem immature and, well, dumb now. But heck, that’s what journals are good for – a place to write all the stuff you wouldn’t want the rest of the world to see.

I always loved holding a pen over a blank page – those journals were my story and no one else could write them.

Besides journaling and letter writing, I didn’t write much in my years as a young mother. When my second child was a toddler I began taking writing classes again at the local college. That woke me up to creative writing again and I had a short story and several poems published in a literary review. I began dreaming stories and woke up in the middle of the night to sit in the hall and write them.

After a couple of more years I realized my dream to become a published author of books needed to become a goal, something I actively worked toward (gee, who’da thunk?).

I’m currently revising one manuscript and beginning another; still stumbling down the road to being a published author.