I was a writer before I knew what a “writer” was. I would say I was born one, but that sounds way too esoteric and eyeroll-inducing. All I know is that when I was a kid, I’d ask for baby name books for my birthday because I was obsessed with finding the most appropriate names for my characters. I drew pictures of the houses they lived in and the schools they attended. I thought about the clothes they wore, the way they smiled, the friends they had, the hopes they harbored.
Not much has changed since the days I wrote Dick-and-Jane type tales on that paper with the absurdly wide lines. Writing was, and still is, an opportunity to create a world, to give life to the “what ifs” that keep me up at night.
“My stories run up and bite me on the leg. I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go and runs off.” Ray Bradbury
What’s weird is that everything in my life is scheduled (my day planner can attest to this) except my writing. I believe that a story demands to be written, when the time is right, or when those proverbial stars align. I usually get a line in my head and it sticks there, taunting me, daring me almost, to ignore it. PEOPLE WHO KNEW ME started this way. Every story I’ve written starts this way.
- I’m 30-something (I’m not being coy; I just don’t want to have to update this page every time I have a birthday)
- I fit many writer stereotypes: I love cats and cardigans and hot tea and booze and rain and Bob Dylan
- I don’t like socializing with large groups of people. And sometimes I don’t even like socializing with small groups of people
- When I got my first apartment, a long time ago, my mom gave me a wooden sign that says, “Home is where your story begins”
- My home is, and always has been, in Southern California