I was an independent child by default. I was, by far, the youngest of three children in my family. My parents worked hard in a factory and a furniture store. They were tired and often left me to my own devices. Luckily, I took their benign neglect as trust. Trust and freedom. I roamed. The neighborhood, the street, the oak trees, the field and the small swamp near our central Florida home were my world. I was given another license to roam: a library card. My mother was a reader and I had my own card before I was able to read. She wanted me to see the world beyond the little town we lived in.
I began writing in high school. Journals were my way of saving my sanity. The act of writing clarified my world for me and gave me a safe place to think and create. When I was in college, I published a few poems and a couple of essays. But when my mother died suddenly during my senior year and left me with a family secret, I found there was one story I could not make fit into a poem, an essay or a short story—the story of my mother’s life.
Years passed and, still, I could not find a way to tell my mother’s story or deal with the secret and unanswered questions she had left me. When my brother who, in his own way was a mystery to me, died too young I realized that time is short and that I would never come to a conclusive truth about my mother and my family. So I gave myself permission to roam outside the facts of her life in order to tell a truth about her. Only then did I find her voice, the voice of Evelyn. I quit my job and spent my savings to buy the time to write. Many drafts, three jobs, and two writing groups later, I had a polished novel and the fortune to find a wonderful agent and great editor at Ecco. I now live in Gainesville, Florida with a new, good man and a cat.