Like most writers, I crave two things: coffee, and a place to write. When all around me is quiet, which is frequently never, after settling at my word processor and taking that first orgasmic sip of coffee, I am ready to create.
A peculiar notion abounds that writers are somehow mysterious beings able to lose themselves in wondrous worlds where non-writers are denied entry until they pay the few bucks for the book. Nevertheless, I am not a mystical being, I am simply a grandmother who, for the past twenty years has raised grandchildren with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome: a mental illness caused by prenatal exposure to alcohol.
If it were not for my grandchildren, I would not be a writer. I would not have written three memoirs. I would not have written fiction, nor non-fiction. It was through the stress of coping with their mental issues that I began to write to relax, and though I enjoyed writing when younger, I had no plans to be a writer, it just happened. Even so, I quickly discovered the health benefits to emptying one’s soul onto paper.
From reviews I have received, readers appear to enjoy my books so, stay a while, read the descriptions, and then feel free to enter my mystical, wondrous world of writing.