My children (they need me, I need them—it's potato, potah-toh). My husband (his alarm clock haunts my dreams). The fact that I'm still alive is a key motivator. Wine on the weekends cushions the blow of the bleary-eyed week. My front-yard view of the neighbors' horse pasture never fails to lift my spirits. The anticipation of small pleasures softens my brow. Hope sows the seeds of my dreams.

In second grade, I authored and illustrated a mini-memoir called My Two Brothers and I. Thirty-odd years later, it occupies a spot on my daughter's shelf. I still get a kick out of the chapter in which my "oldest little brother" tumbles into a hole in "the brown hill' (a giant pile of accumulated yard waste) and I scream for help. The accompanying image is banner.

One of the worst earliest poems I ever penned featured the continuous refrain, "What ho, my lady!" for the entirety of two singled-space, typed pages. SMDH.

I wrote a Daffy Duck/Predator crossover fanfic in fourth grade that earned accolades from my teacher and bemusement from my classmates. Speaking of fanfic, I love Hannigram (Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham). I've written two Hannigram fics under different pseuds on AO3; I would have written more, had the series continued. Much to my chagrin, NBC's Hannibal was curtains after Season 3 and my heart shattered like Hannibal's tea cup, never to come together again (inside Fannibal reference).

I grew up on the edge of the wetlands in a rural suburb of retiree-heavy Sarasota, Florida. Often I'd hear alligators bellowing just beyond the tree line of my backyard. Sometimes I did stupid things like ride motorcycles in my friend's backyard straight into a barbed wire fence. Other hijinks highlights: falling off the same friend's horse; landing on a rusty nail spread-eagled on a balance beam (the memory still makes me wince); and convincing most of my third-grade class my mom was a stripper who danced naked on the rooftop of our house. (It wasn't totally a lie, though--my mom was a professional-level dancer, but her specialty was ballet, not pole.)

In preschool, there was a unisex bathroom that only had one toilet. To save time, I tried to pee standing up like the boys did. (I was very jealous of their ability to easily and quickly urinate without bothering to sit down.) When the boys told on me for daring to follow suit, I got into trouble with the teacher and was shamed in front of the whole class. Later that year, a horridly impatient little girl bit me on the arm when she didn't want to wait in line for the see-saw. Then she was called out in front of everyone at recess and got in trouble with the principal. I wonder if the two incidents are connected...

My dirty secret is that I rarely read ebooks—I prefer physical copies of books. If I discover an ebook, it's because I'm giving an unknown author a chance, just like I hope someone will give me. There are gems amidst the dross.

I was gifted a homemade diary for my fifth birthday. On the front cover, my first name stood puffy in cursive silver glitter. The background abstract design reminded me of a sky at first morning light. Enamored of my first personalized present, I quickly filled the pages, describing my days in both mundane and salient detail.

Old habits die hard.

It is not a desk. It is an old basement couch covered in stains of dubious origins and copious amounts of cat hair. My husband has the desk because he's the family breadwinner. If he discovered I referred to him as this much-maligned descriptive noun, he'd give me a piece of his mind. Fortunately, he will never read this, because he never reads anything I write, and has no idea of my writerly goings-on. But he's supportive of my desire to write, so there's that.

I apologize for calling you a breadwinner, Husband. Next time I was will refer to you as "the pockets." JK. ;)

I go with the flow. Sometimes the flow drags me under. On other occasions, it buoys me. Over the years, I've developed a habit of writing even when I don't feel like it. Pushing through used to be something that wasn't in my skillset, but times have changed, thanks to my four-year participation in NaNoWriMo. Unfortunately, I'm still an obsessive self-editor and have yet to shed my perfectionist leanings. A WIP and a literal whip: that's the devil on my shoulder telling me to get into gear. I listen to her half the time; the other half, I devise ways to silence her. But oh, our chemistry-born-from-conflict is a thing of beauty!

"Primer 2: Masking" is the sequel to "Primer" (an erotic short story commissioned by a randy reader, it features my first time writing a female protagonist in the first person)
Deux (MASTER, Book 4)
This book is literally years in the making (release date: the by the end of 2021). Stop, start, stop, start. Now I'm firing on all cylinders. Vroom, vroom. Status: in the second round of author edits. Readers, text me if you wanna beta my baby. He's ready for the big leagues.
LOOSE LIPS... (an experimental prosetry narrative chronicle told from the mouths of multiple characters, à la The Canterbury Tales)
Melancholia (MASTER, Book 5) I have the bare bones (first draft) lovingly laid out to dress as I please in 2022.

Composing songs and singing them. Goofing off. Coloring. Reading. Streaming. Mom-ing. Overthinking. Daydreaming. Imagining I have a new friend or two to nerd out with when my RL friends are busy. Going on imaginary dates with my husband to tropical islands, the Swiss Alps, and cross-country road trips.

Performing on-page in lieu of performing onstage tops my long list of joys. I am each of my characters in one way or another. Maybe a tiny piece, maybe a large one, or even a medium-sized bite, but they're all me, I'm all them.

My bad side bursts out of its hiding spot and I revel in it via the misdeeds of my villains and anti-heroes.
My weaknesses emerge and I smile fondly as both my protagonists and antagonists reveal their vulnerability.
My compassionate heart beats louder when I write something especially honest and painful.
My chipped shoulder contrasts with my childlike innocence—I write of the world in awed wonder in between cynical mutterings.

The greatest joy of writing is living to tell the tale.