I’ve got stories spiraling out of my brain like smoke rings at a Phish concert.

I’m in love with Tom Robbins, Danielle LaPorte, and Stephen King, all at the same time. (I’m kind of a player that way.)

When you meet me in person, you may find me rather serious. That’s because I think a lot, I’m an introvert, and I’d rather eat socks than engage in small talk. I’m like a fine cabernet - interesting, complex, but ultimately delicious. I just need to breathe for a while before I can open up.

Writing is where I let loose. It’s where I get loopy and silly and dorky and bold. It’s where I cozy up to the brilliant and throw pizza parties for the inane.

Words jostle around my brain like a never-ending tumble dry cycle. Complete with missing socks. (I may have eaten one the last time I went to a party.)

When I’m not writing, I’m reading. Or cooking. When the house is dirty, I have a full-on Capricorn freakout. When life gets really stressful and it all feels like too much, I watch What About Bob.

I am the only female in a houseful of men -- my caring, patient, dad-joke-making husband, and my tiger-striped, box-obsessed cat, who is currently ass-up in the recycling bin.