I started writing my first story when I was seven. I have yet to complete it.
I was born an only child in Denver, Colorado. My parents were both teachers which still, in some circles, qualifies me as having been raised by wolves. My father was a scientist, taught chemistry, and my mother went from teaching art to coordinating gifted and talented, then onto social studies and language arts. Both Oklahomans, my mother by way of Kansas, together, they had enough degrees for several families. Education wasn’t optional in our house.
I grew up adored, but troubled. I suffered from depression and bouts of insomnia, eating disorders and self-harm. I was diagnosed with a myriad of issues, and given as many drugs. I’ve always been an introvert, intensely, painfully shy, prone to purposeful alienation and self-doubt. I’ve only lived alone once in my life. I’m likely now as stable as I’m ever going to be.
Through this all, I’ve written. Throughout middle school and high school, I never went anywhere without a notebook, and was more likely to be scrawling stories under the edge of my book in class than taking notes. I spent my long, sleepless nights sitting on the floor surrounded by a semi-circle of papers and notebooks, writing. I had a box of floppy disks nearly as long as my arm filled with AppleWorks documents. I had a very easily filled addiction.
I went to school to be an actress first, then an artist. Switched schools, attempted art history, English lit. Whatever I was attempting was ridiculous: I’d never wanted to be anything but a writer. I majored in English Writing, and earned my bachelor’s from the University of Colorado at Denver in 2002.
In the midst of all that, I fell in love with a boy– he was an artist, too, and then a graphic designer, an addictions major, history. We got married, he dropped out. Eventually he became a nurse, which surprised everyone but me. He’s extraordinarily patient with troublesome people.
We had kids: a girl, and then a boy. She plays flute and concocts grand schemes; she wants to be an astronaut, a writer, a marine biologist, a veterinarian, all at once. He draws pictures and builds creations from Legos, dreaming of designing open-ended video games that always seem to feature a lot of trees.
There were years spent not writing, and then writing all the time. When I turned thirty, as my birthday gift to myself, I decided to complete a novel. I was laid off from the job I’d grown to loathe just a couple months later; I ended up finishing the novel in just four short months as a result of my sudden free time.
Two more followed, though not as quickly. The fourth arrived in short order earlier this year, along with a smaller erotic romance collaboration with Laila Blake; we’ve also just finished a NA story set during a zombie apocalypse. I am now working on my fifth novel alone, and becoming, each week and month, slightly more diligent in my efforts and scheduling. My erotica is featured in several forthcoming anthologies. It’s starting to feel like a real job now. I mostly like my boss.
I spend my days, now, writing, and cleaning, cooking, reading and contemplating the universe through various pop culture lenses, I talk to a beautiful girl over skype about celebrity gossip and writing. I drink too much coffee and listen to John Mayer; my weakness is cheap red wine. I have a Netflix queue of over 136 movies, but tend to watch the same three sitcoms (The Office, Arrested Development, and Parks and Rec) over and over. I am a half-assed crafter, and failed musician.
Mostly I write. Because I can’t not.