I remember it vividly: my childhood bedroom painted tutti-frutti pink. I don't recall why I chose that color. Me—a quiet, book-loving girl—next to all of that bold, confident pink. I spent a great deal of my time separated from it, sitting inside my walk-in closet, hanging out with a stack of books and a reading lamp. I kept company with Ramona Quimby, stories like Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. I dreamed of becoming a writer.

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I studied literature in college but could never figure out how to manifest my writing dream. One after another, things got in the way. I got in my way. I'd almost given up by the time I met John. My neighbor in a western mountain town, John was an atmospheric physicist and accomplished poet. He suggested we meet to talk about our poetry. I still don't know why he thought I had any to my name. Yes, I loved writing and reading. But poetry? It was unfamiliar terrain.

We set a date to get together. I procrastinated writing. At last, I sat down at my kitchen table and tried my hand at a poem. I felt like a fraud. Soon, however, something else took over. I felt pulled into poetry's tide. I wrote one small poem and then several more. In the days that followed, I couldn't get enough. It felt like poetry was calling, and I had no choice but to answer. It felt a lot like love. 

Since that time, I've been fortunate to cross paths and form friendships with other poets. I've also benefited from the generous instruction of various workshop instructors. While I primarily write poetry, I'm also saying hello to fiction. Whatever form my writing takes, it's the mystery of language I adore. If you do, too, please drop me a line below. I'd love to hear from you.