Like just about every other writer out there, I started writing when I could pick up a pen, maybe even before. It's in the blood, I guess - especially when you have to tap into that blood to come up with something to put on the page. Who's that guy who said writing is easy, just open a vein? Well, he was probably writing since he could pick up a pen, too.

My first documented story (my mom can verify) was about a doughnut, who, when devoured by a hungry canine, took a roll, er, stroll through the dog's stomach, which - conveniently - was in the form of a town with pizza street, candy street, cookie street...you can tell where this is going. Even then, my first grade teacher predicted that I would be a writer. Or a good kisser, since that was my general strategy for acquiring boyfriends. (Personally, I'm glad the writing thing panned out, because I prefer kissing only my wonderful spouse).

I wrote a bunch more in elementary, middle school, and high school, the height of which included two novels - Stolen Love and Playing the Field, two teen romances written long before I actually experienced teen romance (bad poetry, of course, followed the real life ones). My friends read them page by page, risking everything - or at least detention - and spurring me further. Yes, I still have them. No, you may not read them.

Somehow, while I was in late high school and early college, I got this idea in my head that to be a real writer, I had to write something meaningful (read: completely depressing) for adults. I think this may have had something to do with my completely depressing boyfriend (whew, again, a close call). So I put away my dog stories and fairy stories and crazy Irish rebel stories and...didn't write anything but term papers. For a long time. Because suddenly there was all this pressure, and I completely lost the joy of writing.

During that time (here's the credentials part, for those who care), I studied Comparative Literature as an undergraduate and then a graduate while secretly working on a picture book (which, sadly, is still languishing in my files), all the while trying to think of the subject for my Great American Novel. Between those two ventures, I met my now-husband, who kept pestering me to take a class in finding my calling. I finally did, where I (duh) realized that I really wanted to be writing for kids. So I joined the Society of Children's Book Writers & Illustrators (SCBWI), found some fellow writers to critique me, wrote a lot of bad stuff, got better, and even started writing some stuff good enough to be published (credits include Cricket, Spider, and Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul II). I received an SCBWI Work-In-Progress Grant for my novel (then titled Brimstone Soup, now titled A Light That Never Goes Out). If you want to know the details of how that novel came about, read my blog.

I owe my thanks to many people - my supportive parents, best friends who always encouraged me and read my stories (Amy, Pam, Deanna, Kristine, Glynis, and Alice), a few stellar teachers (Erin, Peggy, Kathryn, Meg, Brenda), and the many friends I have made through SCBWI of Western Washington, including but not limited to Justina Chen Headley, Janet Lee Carey, Peggy King Anderson, Sara Easterly,  Lorie Ann Grover, Dia Calhoun, Judy Bodmer,  Katherine Grace Bond, Annie Gage, Julie Reinhardt, Dawn Knight, Donna Bergman, Kathy Adler, Claire Meeker, Molly Blaisdell, Cathy Benson, and many others, and my wonderful agent, who had me at "wow" and has consistently blown me away with his awesomeness ever since. I owe the most to my husband, Shiraz, who is my favorite person ever and who has believed in me when I didn't believe in myself; to Lyra, the joy of our lives; and to the memory of our precious Ezri. And, of course, to God.