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This is the part
where I’m supposed to brag about all my illustrious accomplishments,
but honestly, I’d rather talk about my dogs and brag about
some of the things I haven’t
done:
I’ve never been to prison*, court-ordered
rehab*, or splashed across the cover of a salacious weekly
gossip tabloid with my ladybits on display**.
I’m a Leo, a middle child, and a formidable
Trivial Pursuit opponent. I read everything I can get my
hands on, from the classics to comic books. I don’t
drink coffee because, frankly, I’m high strung enough without
adding caffeine into the mix. Here is the true story of
how I became a novelist:
So I had just
started seeing this guy, and on our second or third date,
he invited me to be his guest at a family wedding. Being
young and free and a bit commitment-shy, I was about to
decline until he casually mentioned that the bride was a
successful romance novelist. Well, the second I heard that,
I had
to go. Being a writer had always been my dream job, and
I’d never met anyone who’d actually beaten the odds and
made the leap into big-time publishing. So I RSVP-ed, sidled
up to the bar at the reception, waited until the bride and
all her author friends uncorked the good champagne, and
then peppered them with endless questions about writing,
editing, and landing an agent. They were so funny and encouraging
and generous with their time and advice. (And drunk!) Next
thing you know, I had joined a critique group and was knee-deep
in the manuscript that would eventually become
MY FAVORITE MISTAKE. The open
bar at that wedding changed my life forever.
Oh, and the guy
who invited me to the wedding? I ended up marrying him.
All together:
awww…
I live in Arizona in a very cute fixer-upper
that my husband and I bought in a burst of can-do, pioneering
confidence. We thought it would be fun to embark on a series
of do-it-yourself renovations. Yeah. I know. Turns out,
replacing baseboard that’s been painted over 15 times since
1958 is not as easy as those Home Depot commercials would
lead you to believe. Also, freshly-installed lawn drip systems
and “helpful” dogs are a bad mix.
 Speaking
of dogs, here we have the indefatigable canine lawn maintenance
crew: Roxie and Friday. Both were rescued from the pound
when they were puppies. I think they’re Rhodesian Ridgeback
mixes. (Probably. Maybe? Anything’s possible.) Roxie is
the brains of the operation and Friday is…well, he’s very
sweet. And so indolent he could be mistaken for a piece
of furniture, which I consider a very desirable trait in
a family dog.
I absolutely love hearing from readers,
so please feel free to
email me, with
the caveat that I am often on deadline/on the road/on the
ragged edge of sanity, so it may be awhile before you get
a reply. Just know that it’s not you; it’s me!
Have fun exploring the site, and if you
have any questions about my new book, my backlist, or finding
an agent…I’ll be right over there at the bar.
*Yet.
**That I know of.
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