One muggy July morning in 1980, sometime around 3:52am, a writer was born. Of course it took her until she was nearly seven to master her ABCs and she was upwards of nine before she was able to even tell the difference between a lowercase b and d, but it never stopped her from making up elaborate stories in her mind.

After a time of being sure she would never, ever, ever-ever-ever learn to read anything but “little kid books”, something finally clicked one day and just like that she was transformed into a night owl, reading anything she could find into the wee hours of the night. Not much has changed in that regard, as she still has trouble rising before 9am, and doesn’t fully commit to being awake until sometime in late afternoon–after a big glass of cranberry white tea over ice. (She hates coffee.) She has been accused of being nocturnal on more than one occasion, and without the aid of the four little humans that allow her to think she is the one in charge, she wouldn’t likely ever see daylight at all.

One day, around aged 28, and while writing her 40 millionth journal entry (give or take, of course) she realized that she was, indeed, a writer. After wrestling with the typical fear of failure and just the right amount self-loathing which every good author must face, she has gone on to have her work published in a variety of online and print publications. While she can’t deny it feels damn good to earn a dollar with her words, by and large she writes simply because she feels powerless not to.


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