I’ve always been a writer. I was the toddler pulling down heavy encyclopedias from the shelf to figure out what the words meant. (Yes, I was born sometime after the discovery of fire but well before the creation of bioluminescent dino pets.)
I was raised in the mountains of Colorado and for awhile, we didn’t have running water, electricity or indoor plumbing. Mom and Dad thought it was a great way of passing along to us five kids the wilderness experience Dad had known growing up on an Alaskan island. We kids wished he’d grown up instead in a flat on the Left Bank in Paris and hung out in charming cafes and we could have duplicated that. But the reason I knew about Deux Magots in the first place was by reading. We might have lacked electricity but I had a flashlight, library card and all the Madeline books.
I write to understand the world.
I got a journalism degree from the University of Colorado in Boulder and realized I could use a pen to break free. I could do anything, go anywhere, ask anybody anything and have a fair chance of getting what I thought I wanted.
And then I figured something out.
Facts only take a person so far. Somewhere under the facts is where the truth lies, where our being—call it whatever you like—God, Spirit, Creator, Light, that piece—knows what it knows.
So whatever writing I do—novels, screenplays, plays, essays—I’m always trying to dive deep and touch at least a part of that magic, that part that’s connected to briny water on Mars, star patterns scratched on walls of ancient caves, music that only whales can hear. It’s also the part that sees and knows the dark parts we carry around—our shame, vulnerability, mistakes.
Both parts—the dark and light—inform every piece of work.
I’m glad you stopped by. Look around, and if you feel inclined, drop me a note here. Yes! My intention is to actually answer them! And if you have a group you’d like me to come and talk to about writing, let me know that, here, too. I especially love speaking to people who quietly struggle with that nasty, wrong-headed, killer voice that whispers it might be too late, that they’re somehow not enough.
Me? I plan to go out a long time from now, singing loudly and off-key among a brave and merry band of seekers. We’ll probably stop by the Deux Margot for one last round before we scatter into particles of light.
In the meantime, I’ll be here writing.