Well, depends how you mean. According to my parents, my career in fiction began nearly as soon as I had speech, as I elevated fibbing to an art form. “I didn’t take the chocolates.” Says the two year old with chocolate all over her face. My actual writing career started in second grade, when I wrote a poem entitled “Suppose I Were A Snowflake”, an existential piece about the self and winter’s dark hold on the soul, which ended up getting published in an anthology of the best creative writing of that year by Chicago Public School students, and when the paperback copy of “Freckled Fantasies” landed and I saw my name in print, the fire was lit.

On the computer. Oh, wait, you meant geographically. I work on the couch, with the computer on the ottoman in my living room. I thought this was because I did not have an office. Then we renovated our house and I got a really gorgeous office, which I made my perfect cozy retreat, beautiful antique desk, walls upholstered in moss green velvet to create a super quiet calm environment with no outside noise distractions, plenty of bookshelves. And promptly discovered I still just work best in the living room. Ooops. I do also do good work at our weekend place, which is where I go when I am up against deadline and really need to be able to work round the clock.

My grandmother, MFK Fisher, Julia Child, Jane Austen feel like my spirit guides, and my circle of writer pals are all amazing mentors to me.  My husband is my inspiration and muse. And Eloise represents my singular goal of how to live.

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