I was born many years ago in a small town in Western Oregon. People ask why I choose to write the “weird stuff,” but the truth is that my brain was attuned to such things from my earliest breath.
At the tender age of nine I deliberately cut my finger with a knife so that I could delay dishwashing long enough to watch this new show called Star Trek. It was the episode where Charlie erased people’s faces. I had nightmares for weeks.
I wrote my first science fiction story as a teenager and had instructors in both high school and college suggest I try for publication. But I felt destined for more a more respectable career. I attained a five year, professional degree in Landscape Architecture from the University of Oregon and worked as a land use consultant in the Seattle area.
After being badly injured in a horseback riding accident, I spent a decade regaining my health. It was during this time that a friend talked me into joining a writer’s critique group. I started writing because chronic pain is boring, and my brain was desperate for activity.
As I recovered, I startled friends and family by going back to vocational school to become a massage therapist, specializing in treating chronic pain. This career allows me enough time to continue writing, for I have finally given in to the compulsion. I have won awards in several contests, and a short story is being published in an anthology the summer of 2016.
When not helping people get well through either touch or words, I can be found on a dragon boat. I spent the last five years paddling on a women’s competitive team named the Angry Unicorns. Every time I’m on the water, I’m grateful to be pain free and active again.
I still live in Oregon, wife of one husband, mother of two sons, and servant of two cats.
A taste of what my writing is all about…
The bird tipped forward again and fanned its’ wings. The note came in a series of short bursts.
“Why does it turn upside down to sing?” Cera asked. “It seems as if it would be awkward.”
Kit shook his head. “Manakins make music in a different way than most birds do. They don’t have a voice, so they rub their feathers against each other. It’s kind of like playing a violin.”
Cera stared thoughtfully at the small creature. A feeling of kinship flickered. She had lost her smile, her confidence and her voice when her father was imprisoned. Maybe on this alien planet she would be like the manakin, and learn a different way to sing.
Excerpt from the unpublished novel, A Distant Song