My mother taught me to read and write when I was four years old, but my love affair with the written word took hold when my grandfather turned off the television and ordered me to read the dictionary. He wasn’t crazy about my obsession with passive entertainment, so he lured me away from becoming a mindless, reupholstered couch potato—my grandmother had a passion for the colors orange and Pullman brown—by bringing me with him to Crossroads Mall in Oklahoma City for his daily walk. After meeting his morning mileage quota, we would visit the toy store and Waldenbooks. My journey as a writer began with Barbie dolls and books, lots and lots of books. And tired feet.

Soon after my time with Webster’s tome, I began filling up wide-ruled, spiral-bound notebooks with musings of my own. I graduated from one-subject notebooks with fluffy kittens on the covers to five-subject, college-ruled Meads. I eventually traded in my notebooks for a computer and Microsoft Word. Then I began writing a novel. A really bad, unfinished novel.

After joining Romance Writers of America and my home-town chapter OKRWA, a generous and brilliant author took me under her wing. (Thanks to RWA, I’ve made some of the best friends an aspiring author could ask for.) My mentor introduced me to the world of blogging, and I now have my very own blog which is updated on an almost daily basis.

I make the time to write in the wee hours between sanity and sleep.

        Photo by WJH, age 4

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