I’d be lying if I said I always wanted to be a writer. I wish I could say it was the writing contest that I won in the third grade that piqued my interest, but it wasn’t. Or that I owe it to those bold, red A’s gracing the pages of my high school and college essays, but I don’t. One day, I simply told myself that I was going to write a book. And I remember that day so clearly—me, in the break room at my nine-to-five job, flipping through the last pages of The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks, and ugly crying like nobody’s business over my Subway Italian B.M.T. Until then, I had never shed a tear or had felt that way over a work of fiction. I just knew…I wanted to make someone else ugly cry with my words.
When I’m not going cross-eyed after writing for five hours straight, or burying my nose in a book, you’ll find me sprawled on my couch watching General Hospital, having alien conspiracy discussions with my husband over a bottle of sparkling, and dancing to Taylor Swift’s 1989 album with my daughter. I currently live in the San Francisco Bay Area.