I’m an only child. And unless you’re an only child as well, you’ve got no idea how insane a lifestyle that can be for a little kid. Where my friends had siblings to play with, compete against, confide in, and even stand up for, I lived in my head. From a really young age I created my own games, told myself stories, and even acted out imagined scenes and dialogue in the privacy of my bedroom. 

My dad, a WWII veteran, was in the Air Force for twenty-six years and became a reporter/photographer, an intelligence analyst, and a military historian. My poor mother tried to be a good 1950s housewife and followed him all over the world, me in tow, until he finally decided it was time to settle down. 

Consequently, I spent the first seven years of my life sleeping in the back of an ancient Plymouth station wagon as my parents attempted to satisfy their wanderlust between every duty station. That car saw us through the canyonlands of Arizona, the mountains of Idaho, and the deserts of California. After that, they sold the car and we headed for a two-year tour of duty in the Orient.

My parents were wildly creative and insisted on living their lives on their own terms. They were both writers and artists. My dad was a self-taught musician who played several instruments, my mom was a terrific blues torch singer, and they entertained with their band throughout the west coast until Mama decided that was no way to raise a kid and they stopped.

An insane way to grow up? Yes, but wonderful. Exciting. Lucky. I had the greatest education a kid could ever have. I experienced different cultures with all five of my senses. I walked in the history of other countries and learned to keep an open mind. And the more I absorbed, the more detailed the stories in my head became.

I'm a writer who was made, not born. My love of reading, making up stories, and ultimately writing them down is a direct result of the unconventional way I grew up. Because my parents were creative themselves, they encouraged me. Because they were both from large families, they understood how lonely being an only child could be. And so they left me undisturbed in the internal world I created. 

I started reading at four years old, and the characters in those books were my closest friends - especially when we were on the road, which seemed like most of the time. And I remember so clearly my first daydream, when I was a very little girl. I had to clean my room, a chore I hated, and I was determined to find a way to make it fun. I imagined I was on a wagon train - don't ask me why. But I was with my family when we were attacked by Indians, and everyone (except me, of course) was slaughtered. I managed to get away, stumbling through rivers and mountains and God knows what all, until I came upon a deserted cabin. I opened the door, went inside...and decided it would work if I just cleaned it up. 

So, I survived an Indian attack, became an orphan, experienced 'Naked and Afraid' long before it ever came on television, and nearly starved to death wandering through all that wicked terrain - but I got my room clean. And, believe it or not, it's a daydream I still use even all these years later (minus the orphan part) because I still hate housework and I still need to make it fun.

Today my writing habits are a little eccentric, I guess. I crave solitude if I'm planning. If I need to get organized in my head, I drive toward the desert in west Texas or move my furniture around. Although I was raised by musicians and I love music, I can't write at all if I hear it anywhere in the house. I get sidetracked and find myself making up another story to go with the lyrics, so I have to write in total silence if I'm ever going to get anything accomplished. 

I'm naturally shy and prefer to watch people rather than have them watch me, but I love the company of readers and other writers, so I hope you'll respond to this post. If you have comments or suggestions, please feel free to make them. I've told you a lot about myself, but I'd love to hear from and about you!