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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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