I got into writing novels later in life. As a child, I was nomadic. I dabbled in art, music, and poetry. I spent my formative years in Boulder, Colorado, where my hippie mom fed me carob chips and dragged me to rock and gem shows. My dad had already traded his embroidered shirts for suits and ties by then. He had turned serious and lawyerly. Which is probably why, after I finished college, I thought that maybe I could be serious and lawyerly too. 

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I went to UC Law San Francisco, where students competed at beer pong and were known for tearing pages out of library books, so the other students couldn’t get them. It was around this ruthless time that I started writing. My then-husband, now ex, had written a book – a feat that I told him I could never accomplish. “Sure you can,” he told me.“It’s easy!”

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After law school, I moved to Cincinnati, my forever home. I birthed two kids who bring me joy every day. I replaced my lawn with a vegetable garden, which I tend vigorously for a few weeks in the spring and then neglect all summer. I wrote, A LOT. I wrote weird stories about floating heads and semi-feral skin-peeling children and venture capitalist werewolves, stories that I hope you all will read some day. I would never have written much if it weren’t for my stay-at-home husband, who does all the dishes and laundry and gives me time. I am eternally grateful for his progressive views on gender roles and his lack of career ambition, and for his insistence that I go get myself an agent. He is immensely supportive and often mysterious. “Wouldn’t it be fun,” he told me, just before I wrote this bio, “if you embellished your bio with some made-up facts?!”