I can write about anything, almost all the time, but ask me to write about me, and I jam up. I live with myself all day, every day, so I’m a little jaded on the subject.

I’m a genre writer living in the Northeast; the genres are fantasy and historical romance. I’ve had two historical romances published, both by Harlequin Historicals, and I’m currently working on a complicated fantasy involving a shapeshifting dragon, a woman who doesn’t yet know how unlike everyone else she is, and a religion just complicated enough to make striking a balance between being clear and avoiding infodump difficult. The current working title is Dragonfly.

I work full-time, partly because writing won’t support me, and partly because I’m that rarity, an extroverted writer, and I need people-time as much as I need reading and writing time. I also believe that nothing in life is wasted if you’re a writer, so the day gig provides me with fodder.

All that being said, I’m pretty sure I’m a reader before I’m a writer; I’m pretty sure I’d give up writing before reading if some sadist made me choose between the two. I’d be seriously cranky, but at least I’d be sane. If I had to give up reading, I’m not sure what would happen to my mental health, beyond knowing it would deteriorate.

And that’s about it.