In second grade, I was supposed to rewrite a fairy tale.
We were assigned three pages.
I wrote seventeen.
When I was eleven, I wrote a story about
alien girls with bright colored skin and hair.
My best friend and I dressed as these imaginary
extraterrestrials for a Halloween party.
At thirteen, I wrote a 247-page novel
in which all of my friends told me what
they wanted to happen to their characters.
In hindsight, it is disturbing how many of them died.
In eighth grade, I read Rebecca and wrote my own sequel.
That’s as close as I’ve ever come to fan-fiction.
I’ve been writing and publishing in some form since I was 16, when I had a poem in a small lit journal in South Carolina (Slugfest Ltd.) and another in one of the Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul books (Teen Love: On Friendship).
I drink Sweet Cream in my Hope coffee. I watch every episode of Grace and Frankie, New Girl, and The Good Place. I am passionately head over heels in love with Honduras. I have a serious chapstick addiction, a history of purple/blue/green hair styles, tattoos in two languages, a whole solar system of freckles, and I may or may not spend an inordinate amount of time trying to convince my kids I am a Time Lady from Gallifrey.