The Long Bio:

Writing was never really a choice for me, but rather the product of an overactive imagination that began in childhood. I was the quiet kid in the corner who talked to herself and made up stories. My imaginary best friend was a kangaroo that lived in my closet. Haunted by nightmares, I woke up screaming on a regular basis. I still have vivid, disturbing dreams, but now I skip the screaming and write it all down. Stories have always been my way of coping and making sense of an often terrifying world. Ultimately, writing was the only thing I ever wanted to do and, as it turns out, the only thing I’ve ever been any good at.

Growing up, I wouldn’t say I was a compulsive liar, but telling tall tales became a habitual and entertaining pastime. Fabricated stories were preferable to dull truths or less than savory realities. During a sleepover séance, I covertly tipped over a lamp to fool friends into believing a ghostly presence was in our midst. Worthy of a soap opera storyline, I also claimed to have an identical twin cousin named ‘Crystal’ and then proceeded to act as my alter-ego. An assignment on what I did on summer vacation prompted my teacher to question the veracity of my account after reading the thrilling  adventure of my dog, Boomer, giving chase to a squirrel only to return with a hint of fuzzy tail in his mouth. Naturally, I insisted every word was the absolute truth. Despite my now socially acceptable outlet for making things up, I still can’t help but give out random names at fast food places – I get a kick out of being called ‘Georgia’ or ‘Felicity’.  Old habits die hard.

The earliest piece I remember writing was the first scene of a play when I was in second grade. Dissatisfied with the school Christmas play, I thought I could do better; a sentiment which has motivated many writers to pick up a pen. Although the task was begun with enthusiasm, I soon lost interest as it became less fun and more work.

In high school, I abandoned story after story, unhappy with initial results and unsure of where to go from there. Like most students, I was taught how to read and think critically, and how to appreciate and analyze a work of fiction, but not the art and craft of writing itself. Without a solid grasp of how to create the characters, conflict and structure of a compelling story (and unaware of the massive editing required), I was convinced I just wasn’t good enough. Who did I think I was anyway? A real writer was a hard-drinking, chain smoking, man’s man who went deep sea fishing for marlin and ran with the bulls in Pamplona – yes, I mean you, Hemingway.

While studying Drama at Queen’s University, I honed my skills and fell in love with the man who introduced me to the works of Margaret Atwood (author of the dystopian novel The Handmaid’s Tale), but a crisis of confidence kept me from fully commiting to writing – until I had my first child. Faced with the humbling task of caring for another life, facing a keyboard didn’t seem so daunting. As I watched a tiny human struggle to take his first steps and form words from random sounds, I realized that all of our first attempts were likely to fail, our second and third attempts fared little better, but gradually we learned – if we continued to try. Learning is an ugly, awkward thing, but the simple act of never giving up has a noble beauty to it.

Ignoring my inner critic, I resolved not to judge my words on the page with the understanding that it wouldn’t be pretty and would never be perfect. I poured over how-to books and advice from renowned authors. I wrote short literary stories, plays, screenplays and even a few songs. When I faltered, I picked myself up and kept moving forward. Finally, I felt ready to take the next step.

The next step was more of a giant leap. Writing a novel in no way resembled a Hollywood movie montage of crumpled paper tossed into a waste bin, scribbling at a hip café with a pencil behind one ear, or hunching over a keyboard with a bottle of Jack Daniels as the curl of smoke from a lit cigarette fades into the night. It was less cool and more chaotic – and it took a heck of a lot longer than five minutes!

I cut and rewrote scenes, modified and eliminated characters, and altered the entire plot structure while two grade-schoolers wrestled over toys and music blared from my headphones. To complete this less-than-glamorous picture, I wore comfy pj bottoms with my hair tied back into a messy ponytail while sunglasses hid my bloodshot eyes as I stared at the computer screen until the wee hours of the morning. I wrote and rewrote until I was ready to show it to my brilliant editor/husband who gave me many notes and changes, and then I rewrote it again and again. Finally, we were both satisfied with the results and I was ready to take the next big step in my journey – publishing .

Through Rogue Earth Publishing, my partner Sylvain and I have decided to release a novella entitled Vampire Perfect before my big novel release, Hard Day’s Bite, in the new year. Naturally, each and every word is the absolute truth. Enjoy!