I’ve been writ­ing sto­ries since I was old enough to write — my first one was on cut-up squares of note­book paper with col­ored mark­ers, about a boy and a girl who find a witch in a for­est. I wrote it in the back of my par­ents’ van as we drove to vis­it fam­i­ly (I might have been in first or sec­ond grade). And I’ve nev­er stopped.

Now, I’m writ­ing sev­er­al nov­els that I’m intend­ing to pub­lish. A big series about the rela­tion­ship between truth and lies that has tak­en near­ly six years, and might take six more. It’s a fan­ta­sy series of epic pro­por­tions, though I’d hes­i­tate to call it an Epic Fan­ta­sy. I’m also writ­ing a short para­nor­mal romance series (because every­thing turns into a series, appar­ent­ly) about fairies, and love, and being accept­ed. Those are draft­ed, there are always more ideas float­ing around.

I’m also a librar­i­an. I have a bachelor’s degree in Eng­lish Lit­er­a­ture, and I’m work­ing toward earn­ing a par­al­i­brar­i­an cer­ti­fi­ca­tion while I wait to have the time and mon­ey to pur­sue grad school for library sci­ence.

Yup, that’s a real owl. (It’s not mine, sad­ly)

For fun, my hus­band and I enjoy hik­ing, attempt to kayak, and a cou­ple times a year dress up and go to a Renais­sance faire or two.

I read as much as I have time for, but occa­sion­al­ly I’ll try on oth­er hob­bies: col­or­ing, paint­ing, cro­chet. We play games and share food with friends every month or so, and that’s about as social as we want to be.

In an attempt to get in bet­ter shape, I attend yoga class­es at a local stu­dio — not as often as I’d like to, but at least once a week.

We have two cats who often get in the way while I’m try­ing to write, but who will usu­al­ly keep me com­pa­ny while I’m read­ing.

Because I find it fas­ci­nat­ing, I’m an INTJ, heav­i­ly, 100%, unques­tion­ably, intro­vert­ed, but I fluc­tu­ate between think­ing and feel­ing. I’m a Raven-puff and I think that fits just as well because of that fluc­tu­a­tion.

I eat too much choco­late, have a weak­ness for ice cream and hot coco, and after I entered my thir­ties I stopped apol­o­giz­ing for that. It’s who I am, it makes me hap­py, and that’s enough approval for me. It’s the same atti­tude I have with writ­ing. I don’t write every day, or even try to. I used to feel bad about it, but I don’t any­more. I write when I can, and read when I can’t. And that’s okay. I’m still a writer.