About Me

I spoke with a Brooklyn accent for the longest time. It faded as I moved to New Jersey, then to Florida, but my husband still teases me. The accent lurks beneath the bland cadence of northeastern suburbia and new southern twang. It rears its head when I’m angry - accompanied by quite eloquent hand-waving and eye-rolling. But it also slips off my tongue - familiar and comfortable as an old bathrobe - when I’m talking to my friend of over 25 years.



Sometimes my speech is like my handwriting - indecipherable. But my husband, my best friend, is both interpreter and translator. No one encourages me and believes in me like he does. Even when I want to stop believing in myself, he won’t let me. He listens to me moan, watches me mope, and cooks me lots of pasta but then he gently guides me back to my desk and sits me down, knowing strongly enough for both of us that the characters will speak, the scenes will set, and the words will come. 



And so, I write. Even though it’s often gut-wrenching and mind-boggling. Even though it’s lonely and isolating. Even though I’d make more money panhandling. Maybe my future holds prestigious literary awards or amazing commercial fame. Maybe not. But when a character introduces herself to me or a phrase so stunning shimmies from my pen, I know I am doing what I’m meant to do. And for that, I am grateful.