In second grade, I was supposed to rewrite a fairy tale. We were assigned three pages. I wrote seventeen. When I was eleven, I wrote a story about alien girls with bright colored skin and hair. My best friend and I dressed as these imaginary extraterrestrials for a Halloween party. At thirteen, I wrote a 247-page novel in which all of my friends told me what they wanted to happen to their characters. In hindsight, it is disturbing how many of them died. In eighth grade, I read Rebecca and wrote my own sequel. That's as close as I've ever come to fan-fiction.
I've been writing and publishing in some form since I was 16, when I had a poem in a small lit journal in South Carolina and another in one of the Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul books. I write what scares and angers me, leading to a novel about tornadoes and homelessness and mental illness, among other projects.
I drink Sweet Cream in my coffee. My DVR is set to record The Mindy Project, Grey’s Anatomy, and Parenthood. My best friend was a college athlete, but I lack all coordination and don't do sweat. I home schooled for 3 1/2 years. I have a serious chapstick addiction, a history of purple/blue/green hair styles, a tattoo on my left ankle, a whole solar system of freckles, and I may or may not spend and inordinate amount of time trying to convince my kids I am a Time Lady from Gallifrey.