There’s a Lego in my bum which fits with the Lego in my chair and when I sit down to write, I hear the sat­is­fy­ing snap of the two pieces fit­ting togeth­er. I love words, dic­tio­nar­ies, the­saurus­es, sharp pen­cils, the smell of book ink and the deli­cious art of carv­ing out sen­tences on clean white paper. I love to slip into anoth­er person’s skin and feel what it’s like to live anoth­er life. I love when char­ac­ters come to me out of nowhere and make me cry so hard my mas­cara runs or laugh until my stom­ach hurts. I love the crazy fun and infi­nite pos­si­bil­i­ty of storytelling.

What pre­pared me for a life of writ­ing fic­tion? Though I have a BA from Bran­deis Uni­ver­si­ty in Eng­lish and Amer­i­can Lit­er­a­ture and a BFA in illus­tra­tion from Rhode Island School of Design, the true answer is prob­a­bly genes. I come from a long line of Irish sto­ry­tellers on my father’s side and the­atre peo­ple on my mother’s. I always knew I loved to write, but it took me a long time to sum­mon the courage to chase the dream. I final­ly went for it when I real­ized I would pre­fer to be a fail­ure at some­thing I want­ed to do, then a suc­cess at some­thing I didn’t.

While I was pre­tend­ing I wasn’t a writer, try­ing to be a nice per­son with a nice qui­et job some­where, I sold lin­gerie, lip­stick and lamp shades. I wrote junk mail. I taught visu­al­ly and hear­ing-impaired kids horse­back rid­ing. I held a pres­ti­gious job in rub­bish removal and I worked in a fac­to­ry wear­ing a paper gown while wield­ing a large mal­let on small serv­ing pack­ages of ketchup.

I am a fit­ness fanat­ic; a book-obsessed, ten­nis-play­ing woman who thinks like a twelve-year-old. If I ever get the good for­tune to meet you, offer me cof­fee and I will be your friend for life.