![]() ![]() ![]() Like writers of all ages, I didn't feel like I fit in. I’d rush to my room to write stories, and, on long car rides, I’d look out at the northern California hills and try to make sense of the world around me. ![]() My mother says there were several years where they never saw me, they just shoved reading material and food under my door (not really, but pretty close). They may have been right when they said I’d ruin my eyes. My parents would always tell me to put my book away when we were in the car driving at night, as I would read every few words when we passed streetlights. Now they give prizes, but I was happy with the hole punch around the rocket ship. I loved the summer reading programs at the library, where they’d give you a stamp for every book you finished. We lived in California and moved cities (and schools) every few years. I had one older sister, my best buddy, even though she wouldn’t let me play Barbies with her and her friends (I would have been Ken, sis), and a cat named Luigi, who would come home all battered up as if he’d had a rough night on the town. ![]() My father was in the optometric field, and my mother worked in the school district, was a painter, and later, a business owner. I was born at a very young age in San Raphael, California. ![]()
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