Once upon a time, I was an odd emo kid. Or, I thought I was. As it turns out, I was more of a goth–but that’s not the point. The point is that somewhere in that phase, I found my weird-kid artist niche of choice was writing novels. Or, attempting to. I was 13 the first time I tried to write one . . . It took me 13 more years to make something of it. (That’s how Eidola came to be.) I was 16 and had moved from goth to geek when I tried again with a derivative alien space-ship plot with an ending I could picture, a couple character names . . . and nothing else. Apparently novels, for me, are a bit like a good beer: they need to sit, preferably in the dark, ideally in proximity to bourbon, for years at a time. I say this because that frankly-trite concept came back around to me in college with such force I managed to produce a complete manuscript . . . which I promptly threw out. The real version, as I think of it, is the in progress monstrosity (once published, it will be about the right size to use as a blunt force weapon) of Envoy.
Somewhere in between letting those ferment, I found a love of short stories, too. (Someday I’ll even find somewhere to publish the rest of them–it’s interesting finding a good fit for the kind of stories you get when you let the gothic tendencies of a science fiction nerd stew through her formative years, on through college, the beginnings of a sensible day job, and one trip to Russia that did not end in the CIA career my poor parents expected.)
Now I’m here, all grown up, still weird, now with a website for hosting stories spanning from paranormal to cosmic, with a little of everything else in between. Just see the menu at the top right corner.