Bio
In the third grade I wrote and illustrated the dramatic tale of a little child who wanted a horse because I was a little child who wanted a horse. Several adults applauded my ingenuity and told me that I should be a writer. I just wanted a horse.
In the fifth grade I wrote and illustrated the story of a little mermaid because I really loved Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid. The adults heaped praise on my derivative creativity and told me that I should be a writer. I really just wanted to be a fish.
In the tenth grade I wrote about being stranded on a deserted island because every child knows instinctively that this is the pinnacle of a grand adventure. My teacher expressed amazement at my description of eating a coconut, which I had never eaten before, and told me that I should be a writer. I really just wanted an island. And a coconut.
Secretly I knew that I could never be a writer. No matter what anyone said, what they didn't know was that I found the writing process to be incredibly difficult. Then one fateful day as I was muddling my way through a particular challenge, a little incandescent lightbulb appeared over my head: I was enjoying myself.
In that moment I knew that I was, had been, and would always be cursed to reside under the inescapable glow of a writer's halo. Because things being easy aren't always the same as things being agreeable or intended.
Although I've yet to acquire my gills, I grew up to be a gender-centaur, sometimes called a unicorn, who keeps company with small tigers and draws comics. I am also widely regarded as the best story-slinger this side of the living room couch by anyone who will listen to me and knows what's good for them while they are occupying my living room couch.
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