This is where I admit to wanting, desperately, to write the Great American Novel, but I think Ernest Hemingway did that already, so I’m a decade or two late and a few pages short.
No matter. There is plenty to write, and plenty to write about. It will always be fiction, sometimes drama, sometimes humor, frequently speculative and occasionally snarky, but I will endeavor to persevere at all costs. Poems, short stories, nonsense, silliness, and downright snarking when possible are my venue. Not to say I don’t or won’t do serious stuff. I simply refuse to be categorized, so you may find me cranking out copy on a romance involving a long-dead Roman centurion, or setting up a conflict between humans and an unseen enemy known only as the Snakes. It depends on what part of the Universe I’m working in.
I also cook.
Whose writing do I like? I like anyone who tells a good story. That can be anyone from the late Georgette Heyer, the doyenne of Regency Romances, to Robert Heinlein, the dean of science fiction, to good old Bill Shakespeare — Oh, you heard of him, too? Good! If you want to be kept guessing, Agatha Christie never fails to do that. And lest I forget, I can include the late Ray Bradbury, who made Waukegan, IL, famous, and Alice Hoffman, who always manages to make the simplest things seem mysterious and wonderful.
My companions on this journey are my cats. My personal assistant, the late, great Smokey the Pooh, met me in the kitchen sink one morning with one front leg wrapped around an empty wine bottle, a pot of kitty grass, and THAT look on his face.
I asked him “You had a party last night and you didn’t invite me?”
He twitched a whisker and answered “Oh, baby, I would have called you, but the phone in the limo was broken.”
It’s what I live for.