When I was a little girl, I entertained myself by drawing floor plans of houses for imaginary people. I lulled myself to sleep at night making up stories about them. My mother thought I would grow up to be an architect, but it wasn’t really about the houses, it was about the characters.
I love language, so books have always been one of my greatest pleasures. When I was a teenager, I wrote stories and essays, but I never thought of writing a novel until my college roommate said, “We could do that.” So we did. We plotted three novels and wrote two of them together before life got in the way. Those stories now live on floppy disks at the bottom of a drawer.
Once I’d had a taste of writing novels, I found I couldn’t give it up, so I started writing by myself. After countless revisions and three major overhauls, a coming of age story about a ballerina became my first completed manuscript. It’s in the bottom of a drawer now, too. My latest project is a novel about a lonely girl who adopts a dog and finds a circle of human friends at the local dog park.
Almost two decades from that first foray into novel-writing, after four cross-country relocations and a haphazard career path, I now live in San Diego with my husband, Bruce, and my dog, Lola. For the first time in my life, I have the luxury and the curse of being able to write full-time. When I’m not writing, I’m reading, working in the garden or dancing.