Sometimes, okay, most of the time, my life is plain dull. Some may think otherwise, because it sounds thrilling. I move back and forth from Maine to Savannah with my cool British writer/illustrator partner, our two dogs and cat. I have a new teaching job outside of Philadelphia, so we’ve added a third stop to the chaos. I swim in the Maine ocean in a wetsuit. I see alligators in the swamps of Georgia. My mother lives on a tiny island in the Caribbean where I go snorkeling. My in-laws live in Brighton, England—the hippest town in GB. I know a lot of famous people (like Ron Koertge and Jane Resh Thomas, etc…oh and I knew Zero Mostel, too who is not a children’s book writer, but what the hey—knowing him makes me seem exotic, right?) I had a spider monkey as a pet when I was growing up. My family lived in Norway in a hut in the mountains with no electricity or running water while my father studied lemmings. I write. I illustrate. I have a few books published.
But, the truth of the matter is, my life is dull. I prepare for classes. I read Hamline packets every month. I try to get daily exercise. I walk the dogs. I pack and move a couple times a year. I go to bed insanely early and get up the next day. I stress about writing or not-writing, and when, if ever, I am going to get my next contract. A contract validates that work, but the work is the only thing that makes life interesting, and as writers we can always make our life sound as dull or exciting as we want. Why I have never written about that monkey or the lemmings yet, is a curiosity to me as well.