I held a prestigious job in rubbish removal and I worked in a factory wearing a paper gown while wielding a large mallet on small serving packages of ketchup. I taught visually and hearing-impaired kids horseback riding. While I was pretending I wasn’t a writer, trying to be a nice person with a nice quiet job somewhere, I sold lingerie, lipstick and lamp shades. I finally went for it when I realized I would prefer to be a failure at something I wanted to do, then a success at something I didn’t. I always knew I loved to write, but it took me a long time to summon the courage to chase the dream. I come from a long line of Irish storytellers on my father’s side and theatre people on my mother’s.
What prepared me for a life of writing fiction? Though I have a BA from Brandeis University in English and American Literature and a BFA in illustration from Rhode Island School of Design, the true answer is probably genes. I love the crazy fun and infinite possibility of storytelling. I love when characters come to me out of nowhere and make me cry so hard my mascara runs or laugh until my stomach hurts. I love to slip into another person’s skin and feel what it’s like to live another life. I love words, dictionaries, thesauruses, sharp pencils, the smell of book ink and the delicious art of carving out sentences on clean white paper. There’s a Lego in my bum which fits with the Lego in my chair and when I sit down to write, I hear the satisfying snap of the two pieces fitting together.
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