By night, I don a cape and mask and fight crime.
Actually, I don’t fight crime. But I do have a secret identity. I’m a writer. I write all the time—on the computer, in paper journals, on the backs of receipts, on the silky unscarred flesh of my many beautiful manslaves. When I’m not writing novels or short fiction, I relieve the almost unbearable pressure of words in my mind by blogging about my existence in minute detail.
By day, I put on the Clark Kent glasses and pretend to be a Marketing Manager at a large insurance company. Apparently, I pretend pretty good, because over the course of my career I’ve helped produce award-winning campaigns for a variety of national and international clients. I have also owned a newspaper, driven night-shift taxi, read tarot professionally, and taught conversational English in Japan.
All while fighting crime.
(I’m also an unreliable narrator. I know, it’s maddening. Try walking a mile in my shoes before you judge me. My shiny, red, crime-fighting shoes.)
I live in the first city in the United States incorporated west of the Rockies in a 1916 Craftsman bungalow that I share with my husband, my daughter, two unbearably entitled cats, a long-suffering yellow lab named Sugar Cookie, and her four rambunctious whelps.