Who are you?
What type of stuff do you write?
Personal journey stories with romance tied in. I try to write stories people can relate to, no matter where we live, how we live, we all love, we all lose, and if we are open, we can all learn something about ourselves each day.
What do you want to pimp right now?
34 Seconds is coming out in early October. It’s about a woman who discovers herself and how she never truly had control of her life’s major choices through a journey of losing someone she loved when she was much younger. I hope mothers can find the humor in Nikki’s daily life, and anyone who has loved and lost can smile through Nikki’s journey.
What is your favorite book? (or three)
I read four or five books at a time, and I’m sure if I picked a favorite, I’d change that later. I love James Rollins. He and Rebecca Cantrell have a series out, The Sanguine Series, which I love. He also has a middle school series that remind me of Rick Riordan. I also love Stephen King and absorb his books daily. I’m almost always reading something by King. I just read The Martian by Andy Weir, and I didn’t want it to end. It was very good. I loved the humor in such a devastating situation.
Besides the author hat, what hats do you wear?
I am a mother and a wife. I have three school age children. I also have two Saint Bernard dogs who I love almost as much as my children. We are a busy family.
Where can we find you?
I walked into a room once, one I hadn’t visited in many years. Inside were memories waiting for me to care once again. Underneath the memories, I found notebooks filled with stories. Turning around, I realized I was in my childhood bedroom. On the bed, I could see a slight vision of a little girl and her guitar, writing music as quickly as she could get it onto paper. Dolls filled the empty spaces between notebooks and paperback novels. I sat down as the vision of freckles vanished from the sheets. I used to be a writer. A young girl who grew into a woman and lost a piece of herself. I used to live in that space. A space where words streamed like a soft, sweet summer breeze. Somehow I’d walked away. I grew up and left my toys behind. Notebooks left on a bed filled with dolls became musty. A ghost lived in that room. One who waited for me to return again. I didn’t start writing again until my youngest child was old enough to walk and talk. But sitting with those musty notebooks remembering a time, before I had a family of my own and would sit in an apartment surrounded by outlines and songbooks, when I was a writer brought me smiles. I am happy to be here again. With my own ghost.