I’ve always been a vivacious storyteller. I attribute this gift to having middle child syndrome (it’s a self-diagnoses, but it’s pretty much based in semi-factual information and conclusions drawn from a single article in TIME magazine).

I was born in Southern California, destined for youngest child greatness, when my parents ruined it by having my little sister (I forgave them though because she’s amazing). Little did I know my true destiny was to be the second of not three, but four children, sandwiched in between my older sister (the first born) and my younger sister (the youngest girl), capped off by our brother (the baby and the only boy of the family).  So, here I am, the second kid, no parentheses with a distinguishing trait. The middlest of all middle children. To add complex to self-diagnosed syndrome, my three siblings were all blonde haired, blue-eyed, little angelic looking things. I had brown eyes, brown hair and was, as my mother called me, solid (which to this day I argue is about as good as saying “big-boned”). I compensated by being a loud, sassy, humorous, bubbly, quirky, awkward, imaginative, unbelievably tangled hair, chatterbox of a kid.

At an early age my imagination got me into trouble, serving as the catalyst that fueled my need to embellish tales (some would call this lying but that has such a negative connotation). So, it really shouldn’t have baffled Mom when she got a call from my pre-school teachers, concerned that they didn’t have any information on my birth parents. When my mother inquired, politely of course, as to what in the hell they were talking about since she was one of said birth parents, they informed her I had told them about my “other” parents.  According to four-year old me my “real” parents, Chrissy and Tom, had tragically died (may they rest in peace) when a burglar shot them, leading to my godparents (i.e. my real parents) adopting me.

I was four and they believed me.  Should have thrown in the towel then and said “What’s up world, I’m going to write some books!”

But like most people I didn’t realize my calling at age four. First I had to live a little bit o’ life. So I did. Then last year, after a long phone call with my parents (who seriously rock way more than Chrissy and Tom), I gave myself the gift of self-acceptance and decided to seriously pursue writing, specifically romance novels. Neither writing nor romance novels were foreign to me. I’ve always written, whether in school or not, and I’ve been reading romance for as long as I could remember (I don’t remember my first romance novel, but I do remember I was too young and I knew I was too young, so I hid it in a big, thick, classic-looking, copy of Heidi. Mom caught on when the thickness of pages on either side of the binding never progressed).

As the book nerd within me grew, I learned to venture outside of romance and eventually enjoyed visiting many different genres. When I found myself weary and tired from my travels, I’d always head back to romance. That was home. Even in my darkest moments, curled up in bed, hugging a pillow to my chest, attempting to smother some of the pain coming from my breaking heart, I loved love. When the sobs calmed, the tears cleared, and I needed to forget the heartbreak, I’d pick up a romance novel and read about two people finding each other and their journey as they fell in love. The great thing about love is it’s something you can always find, no matter your circumstances, past, age, race, gender, religion, political affiliation, disability, etc. Love, or the possibility of it, is always available, waiting patiently until you’re ready to find it (I’m deep, I know).

Authors are always told to write what they know. Romance is what I know. Therefore, it is what I write (I need that on a t-shirt). I hope the books I’ve written, and will write, bring all the elements that make romance novels so special to readers, along with tear inducing laughter, realistically sexy alphas, fierce heroines, page melting chemistry, and addicting stories.

When I’m not writing, I’m working at my kick-ass day gig that affords me the luxury of feeding and sheltering myself while I chase my dreams, talking to my parents or siblings on the phone, dining and wining with the best sets of aunts and uncles westside of the state, hiking the beautiful mountains surrounding Seattle, getting my sweat on at hot yoga, or banging my head against a wall as I navigate the dating scene, trying to find my guy in a world of “hot or not” apps.

My life’s a beautiful blend of organized chaos, charming characters, and encounters pleading for a narrative.

Lucky me.