I learned early in life that making up stories and telling them as if they were true was called lying, and that doing this was frowned upon by my parents and teachers. But by simply writing them down, I discovered that lies became fiction, something prized by those same adults.

Stories have always been important to me, beginning with hearing my dad read Winnie the Pooh at bedtime. I continued this tradition by reading to my own children, often well past bedtime, and by sharing my favorite books with the students who populated my classroom. I encouraged them to write stories of their own and they challenged me to do the same. I consider myself a teacher by trade and a writer by sheer will. 

I grew up in the urban forest known as Minneapolis, where trees outnumber people almost three to one. Like a dandelion seed, I drifted from place to place until I finally landed and put down roots in my own backyard. 

When I’m not reading or writing, you’ll find me strolling through my neighborhood, pulling something delicious out of the oven or the vegetable garden, or conversing with my rescue dog Alfie who never talks back (so far).