I come from the land of grits and kudzu where the summers are hot enough to cook eggs on concrete―in other words, Georgia. One of my earliest memories of the connection between books and writers is about one of my cousins. You see, she had written a book, and even as a kid I loved books! Mama said I was NOT allowed to read this one. She tucked it among the paperback mysteries on her bedtime reading shelf, but I managed to catch a glimpse of the title: Skidmarks to Hell. I could hardly wait to get my hands on that book! Mama made sure I didn’t, at least not till I was grown. Even then, I kept glancing over my shoulder as I turned the pages, sure I was going to get in a passel of trouble. My cousin’s book was steamier than the streets after a summer thunderstorm, and I keep a copy of it on my bookshelf to this day.

I fear that reading my cousin’s book put me on the skids toward becoming a “creative type.” I took oil painting classes and filled a lot of canvases with seascapes featuring boats (as you can see). Next, I painted my fingernails black with white polka dots and discovered that paint made for walls gives you warts when you paint your nails with it. Go figure! Next I hobbled through a role as Grandma Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof and sang a solo at Atlanta’s Symphony Hall. Then my high school psychology teacher told me I should be a writer. She also tried to explain the meaning of infinity, which I still don’t understand. But I think the two things are connected—writing and infinity. They both go on and on and on and . . .

I married young, started a family, and wrote to keep my brain from turning to scrambled eggs. My five children (four boys, one girl) provided endless learning experiences. By the time my kids were grown, I could snap a onesie on a writhing baby with one hand while holding a book open in the other and turning pages with my nose. My most difficult child-rearing lesson: you are not in control. The best you can do is raise kind, caring children who will then be gracious enough—on rare occasions—to let you think you are in control.

When my youngest entered preschool, I jumped into college and juggled parenting with being a re-entry student. I attended Humboldt State University (Now Cal-Poly Humboldt) in Arcata, California, an artsy town nestled between the redwoods and the Pacific that could have stepped off the pages of a cozy mystery. (Maybe it will someday!) I came out the other end both exhausted and invigorated with Master’s degrees in teaching writing and in literature. Those qualified me for one of the few paying jobs an aspiring writer can aspire to: editing!

After decades focusing on children’s literature, a raven hopped into my head and starting squawking. The bossy black bird had something big in mind: a change of focus, a new direction for my writing life. I’d been living, rambling, and writing in an RV for years, exploring the wonders and weirdness of the Pacific Northwest. The gorgeous places I visited, the quirky people I met, the coffee shops I wrote in and the mochas I drank all seemed to belong in a book, but not a kids’ book. A cozy mystery!

While camped in a cove at the edge of the Pacific, I put fingertips to laptop keys and began.

In the shallow estuary where Elk Creek dumped water, soil, and secrets into Last Chance Cove, a Great Egret, spindly-legged and mute, lifted one foot and then the other, knobby black knees bent, silently stalking its next meal. With one quick jab, its orange beak thrust, slicing into its catch. 

Murder at Last Chance Cove, the first book in my cozy mystery series from Storm Publishing debuts in August 2025 with books two and three to follow in quick succession. Thank you Raven, thank you Storm, thank you readers who dare to delve into my Pacific Northwest Cozy Mystery series!