My favorite place in the whole world is the South; luckily I get to live here. I love the people and the hospitality we are so famous for. It is where I met my husband who, by the way, reads more than I do. Unfortunately, we don’t read the same things.There must be authors out there who love hearing that little phrase. In our house, books grow into wobbly towers, popping up in every single room like mushrooms after a rain.

Our second love: Movies. We are huge movie buffs: silent, black and white, romcom, docudramas, noire, animation, Indie…  I’m sure you don’t have time to suffer through the entire list of favorites just take my word for it, we’ll watch anything. We have an incredible Indie movie theater, and we try to hit it at least once a week. We have been known to buy the biggest box of popcorn so we can stay the entire day and watch one movie after another, especially when they have award winning shorts. But even after a day at the movies, we still come home, pooch up on the couch, and read.

A word about writing. I wanted to write the kind of stories my grandfather loved telling, his adventures as a kid living in rural East Texas, driving his first model-T, and the lonesomest time of his life, when his father died. But working and raising a family kind of shoved my writing aspirations to the back of my closet, literally, to the back of my closet, to a corner next to my shoes. The day my youngest got his driver’s license and happily drove to school, I ran upstairs and rifled through in the closet. From a shoe box, I pulled out notes scribbled on torn scraps of paper.Then I searched a plastic bag for stained napkins covered in water-smeared ink and crumpled pieces of yellowed notebook paper. I sat down and started writing, and I haven’t stopped since.

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