If you ask my husband, he’d tell you that, as a rule, I tend not to follow his suggestions. Call it independence. Call it stubbornness. Either description fits my personality. For longer than I can remember, he’d suggested that I take a stab at putting my creative ramblings down on paper. But something about committing all those stories swirling around in my head to paper seemed like a massive undertaking. One I wasn’t sure I could tackle.

So for five long years, I politely ignored my darling husband every time he bothered to mention my future and writing in the same breath.  I smiled and made excuses. Oh, yes, I could think of a thousand reasons not to try: I was too busy, I had kids to haul, an unending mountain of laundry to do, and dinner to cook. I argued that I was too logical-minded to drift along in my own fictional world, plotting the rise and fall of my characters. For goodness sake, I majored in math, not English. How would I ever figure out if my modifiers were dangling, or how to properly use a comma?

But over time, his idea germinated. Slowly, it took root in my heart, forcing out all the excuses and worries. I began researching and outlining, because my analytical mind needed someplace to start, and a blank page on my computer screen was just too daunting.

After more than a dozen years of home schooling the four kids—another one of my husband’s grand ideas—I finally opened up the front door and pointed the youngest in the direction of the local high school. I might have given her a little shove, I can’t remember. But I distinctly recall flipping the dead-bolt lock and getting down to the business of writing my novels.

When I’m not pounding away on my laptop, you might find me taking a walk or talking to my fluffy white dog, a schnauzer-poodle mix that’s smaller than my long-haired tabby. I still whip up marvelous creations for dinner, but I do my best to ignore the laundry and the rest of the never-ending housework. Like so many authors, my love for the written word started with a passion for reading, so my house is cluttered with books of all kinds.

I’ll admit that most days my world is powered by black coffee, dark chocolate, and a glass of red wine. On occasion I throw in a piece of fruit for good measure.

Happy reading,