I went to college in Chicago. My freshman year, I had to get written permission from all my professors to take final exams early, as I was needed home to be a Princess in the Cotton Carnival. There were about thirty of us princesses, and we all wore the same pink, floor-length, pleated taffeta gown. At all the parties, we looked like a school of giant, land-based shrimp.
I had picked Northwestern for its Creative Writing program. I’m still unclear where I veered off-course, and how I ended up with a BA in economics. It took me two graduate degrees and seven jobs before I came back around to writing. After a few years of churning out some downright awful novels, I finally got the hang of it. Now that I write full-time, the noisy characters in my head are much easier to control.
I love Mr. Darcy, guacamole, Hob Nobs, indie music, consignment stores, Harry Potter, and love stories. I’m really not a fan of shopping, heights or spicy food. I suck at reading directions; however, I’m an excellent parallel parker. Like, excellent.
I live in Memphis with my husband and three daughters. To date, none have expressed interest in being a Princess in Cotton Carnival, though one has had blue hair.