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I was raised in a family where dreams were encouraged. Friends might have gotten a kick out of my early attempts at writing (maybe even my current ones…), and acquaintances may have raised their eyebrows and covered a laugh when they heard that I planned to be a novelist when I grew up, but not my family. My parents gave me opportunities to learn the craft. My brothers bragged on my writing abilities before I deserved it. So later, when the rejections started pouring in, it didn’t really matter. The foundation had been laid. My family believed in me, so I did, too.
So… yes, I’m a writer. In a lot of ways it’s my life – I come up with ideas at work, at church, in the car. It’s what I talk about and sometimes even dream about. But I do other things, too. Once in a while. I love to decorate – I think if writing hadn’t been my dream, decorating would have taken it’s place. I married my high school sweetheart and best friend, and we love to explore historic little towns or go to see a play or watch the meerkats at the zoo. Sometimes I like to cook, although I know if my husband smiles and says, 'Oh, it’s so… gourmet,' I’ve failed and need to pitch the recipe.
I love Cheesecake Factory and Taco Bell. Strawberry smoothies and root beer and sobes. Old books and sepia-tone pictures. The Infiniti G-35 Sports Coupe with shiny chrome rims. (No, I do not own one. One of these days…) I love picking up local deli subs and eating them by the water. Fox terriers and rat terriers and Italian greyhounds and great danes and rottweilers – okay, most dogs. And, of course, I love to read. Imagine that.