As a girl, I loved to write and illustrate stories and poems, and spent hours immersed in the worlds of my favorite authors. When I was in high school, I told my parents that I wanted to be a writer. My mother tried to be tactful, suggesting that writing fiction was a nice hobby, but my talents would be better suited to a career in communications. My dad was a bit more blunt: "A writer? You'll starve!" Thanks, Dad.
So twenty (plus or minus) years went by. I spent tens of thousands on an advanced degree I never used, choosing instead to stay home and raise two sons. Since it became clear that no one was going to pay me to sit on my couch and binge-read in my pajamas, I decided to put down on paper some of the characters who were walking around in my head. I'm so glad that I did, because now I get to share their lives with others. It is—at the risk of sounding like a cliché—a dream come true.
I live with my husband and sons in rural Maryland. My husband is still the love of my life and my best friend. He gives me support, inspiration, and (most importantly) Hershey bars.