I knew early on that I wasn’t a “normal” child. I’ll never forget the time my mom signed me up for softball (*gasp*). I cried every time I had to leave the dugout (as did my teammates). The position I played was right field; you know, the least likely place to which anything would ever be hit? I still remember the facing the one lefty in our entire league up at bat. A ball screamed toward me, I covered my head with my glove, turned my back and crouched in horror. The collective sigh from the dugout was audible. Yep, I was that kid.
I’m pretty sure my parents were worried about me.
I’ve always been a thinker, a dreamer, an artist. I wrote poetry and stories in my room late at night; the typical under-the-covers-after-bedtime-with-a-flashlight-so-I-wouldn’t-get-caught kind. I loved to read the works of Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, E.E. Cummings, Roald Dahl, Shel Silverstein, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Richard Adams, Paul Zindel, and many, many, many, others. Although those authors will never know it, they taught me much about imagery, euphony, alliteration, symbolism, assonance, and … and … and …
I fully appreciate this mouthful of unwieldy words that helped shape who I am, and I will always strive to include these qualities in my work.
I don’t like to call myself a wordsmith. When I hear that reference, in my mind’s eye I see a huge burly blacksmith-y writer banging away on a sentence-topped anvil with a giant hammer to yield change by force. I prefer to weave words; intertwining threads into subtle, thoughtful, expression. An art, a legacy, a gift.
Writing makes me feel content in a way I can only describe as the “fit” of finally doing what I know I was meant to do. It’s a passion for imagery and words and context. It’s falling in love, only with myself, and I get butterflies in my stomach every time I make a writing date with me.
I could really use a personal assistant to steer me through my everyday. I am a forgetful word hoarder and stash written ideas and phrases on scraps of paper. Two full drawers-worth of snippets awaiting my attention. The thoughts on these paper strips pile up because I know if I don’t record ideas when they come to me, I will lose them. Forever. So I must write them down. In fact, you will often find me with a left hand completely covered with scribble because I was driving or distracted, hoping I can get to a pen and paper before I fail to remember not to wash my hands!
In addition to reading and writing, I adore biology, history, and anthropology. I hate cooking. Haaaate cooking. Did I mention I hate cooking? I enjoy a life full of learning, family, friends, and sunshine. I love quiet moments, a nice Napa wine, and find peace in a good thunderstorm.
I stand for equality.
I’m a proud member of Virginia Writers Club (Riverside Chapter), James River Writers, and Fauquier Writers Critique Group. I’m a published poet (Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review) and author (A Journey of Words by Scout Media). I currently live along the Rappahannock River in Fredericksburg, Virginia, but, born and raised in Southern California, my heart will always belong to the West Coast of the United States. Most of my written works are set in one of these two locations.
These days you’ll find me in my office working on two separate novels, writing poetry, and producing short stories.
I still suck at sports, much to my travel soccer playing kids’ chagrin, but I have made an effort … once … maybe twice.