My first car was a yellow Mustang nearly as old as I was that didn’t go above 50 miles per hour, but it was a pretty little thing and I loved it.
While digging through one of my many nostalgia boxes, I found a smutty story I wrote when I was fourteen. Let’s not tell my mother.
I wanted to be a pediatrician when I grew up. Then I shadowed a pediatrician, saw a spinal tap done on a two-year-old little boy and said, “Screw this.”
I suffer from I-can-totally-do-that-myself-itis. If I see something I like/am interested in/want, I figure I can just do it myself. Exhibit A: photography. Exhibit B: writing books I want to read.
I found a tutu on Etsy I wanted for 2013’s RWA conference, but I waited too long to order. So I sewed it myself and wore it to the Harlequin party. (Fact 5 also known as Exhibit C)
I’m addicted to Sharpies. Okay, not just Sharpies—any and all pens and markers…and file folders…and notebooks…and post-it notes. Fine, I’m an office supply whore.
I’ve had my oldest child’s name picked out since I was twelve. I’m sure it’s no surprise I got it from a book.
I love the snow. And the cold. I will take winter over summer any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
I married my high school sweetheart. We fell in love at the age most people (our parents included) said we didn’t know what love was.