Me, Christmas 1979

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About Me

I was born in southern Ohio, where we lived in a little white house on a huge expanse of land. My yard was lined with beautiful flowers and bordered by tall maples, pines, walnut trees, and one prized blue spruce tree that was so tall it made you dizzy to look up at. Every Christmas my dad got several poles, taped them together with a coat hanger bent in the shape of a hook and would string that tree with big multicoloured Christmas lights, which always ushered in the snow. In the spring, our pretty little dogwood tree started to bloom and bees, bunnies, squirrels and chipmunks would appear and try to take over the yard. There was a pond across the road and on sticky hot summer nights when the windows were opened, the frogs and crickets would make such a racket it was hard to get to sleep. My favourite season was autumn, though. The leaves on all the trees gave the impression of catching on fire, glowing with spectacular shades of orangey-red, yellow, brown, and those last few stubborn pear green leaves that were being forced to change against their will. Behind the rows of trees to the back was a vast field full of weeds and wild flowers all the way up to our knees. Then there were the woods, acres and acres of the finest trees, hills, and streams anywhere in the world just waiting for us to explore every inch of them!

When I was little I would sit and listen to my dad read me stories over and over again. When he wasn’t reading, he was making up stories or songs. My older sister and I had our very own song, and story series which featured an imaginary friend my dad made up for us. Hers was Billy and mine was Jock’o Free Sport.** Jock’o, as name would imply, loved to play sports, climb trees, ride bikes, and get completely dirty – just like me. My dad also had a long running story, “The Adventures of Mr MacAbea” (and his little dog Barnaby). Later when I had my son, my father made up a song and story series for him as well, featuring a small boy who lived in the mirror and looked and acted exactly like my son, only his name was Cornbread.

My father instilled in me a love for stories, but I was not a very good reader and, to this day, a terrible speller. That didn’t stop me from making up stories though. If my dolls could’ve talked they would’ve told you of all the amazing stories I told them. When I was in school - second grade I think - we had to write a poem for class. It was raining, so I wrote about raindrops. My writing was terrible so the teacher said she would have to write it out herself in order to read it. I thought I was going to get into trouble, but instead she affixed the new, clearer written copy to the classroom “Wall of Fame”! Later in elementary school, I wrote a book containing several short stories and poems called “Mostly Cats”, which was, well… mostly about cats. It was for a class assignment. I didn’t do particularly well at school (I have diseidetic dyslexia) and was very surprised when the teacher picked my story to read in front of the class (the whole thing!). Other than that I didn’t write anything down. I only wrote when forced to do so.

Boy, things have certainly changed! When I was 25 I began my first children’s book after going to loads of children’s literature conferences, workshops and lectures. In the meantime I went to university for a collective three years in America while bringing up my son. I had no idea that I could ever have loved writing due to my dyslexia. I suppose after having been an assistant teacher for over 12 years, I've had plenty of material to draw from. The year I turned 29 I moved to Glasgow, Scotland to see if I would like to live there. On my second day I was introduced to the man of my dreams (although he didn’t have a Scottish accent in my dreams for some reason), by his mother! After a year and a half we were married and are now living happily ever after nestled in between shimmering lochs and very green hills in a village outside of Glasgow with my brilliant 15 year old son, and my westie. I am lucky enough to be writing full time while waiting with baited breath for my books to one day be published!

**For the disadvantaged, like my Scottish husband, who don’t know that “Jock” is an American slang name for a very sporty person and NOT a Jackobite (whatever that is), I would like to make that plain and clear to you now