I’VE BEEN LOTS OF PLACES AND DONE LOTS OF THINGS IN MY LIFE.
Here’s some of them. I started my first novel at the age of eleven. I got stuck tårying to figure out how to bring water to the cabin my heroine was living in on a remote island with her wild horses. (Of course, girl and horses-I was eleven.) And I quit. My brother loved for me to read him what I was writing, and he's never forgiven me for that. Too many years later I read a mystery where the heroine had the exact same problem. The writer solved it in three sentences. Who knew you didn’t have to have an engineering degree to write fiction? I wish I could remember who that writer was. I’d like to thank her.
I worked as an environmental activist (All the way to the Supreme Court—we lost), breeding Running Quarter Horses, and raising cattle. I was already raising children and peacocks. When empty nest syndrome arrived, I moved to Ruidoso, New Mexico where I enjoyed the mountains, the desert, and learned to read Tarot Cards. Then a woman for whom I’d read the cards came up to me one day and told me, quite happily, I’d changed her life—she’d gotten a divorce and….OMG. Did I really want to be changing people’s lives so drastically? Did I know what I was doing?
So I went to grad school and got my Ph.D. in East-West Psychology. That was one of the most fun things I’ve ever done. Plus I got to live in San Francisco. My urban experience. Another one down on the bucket list.
But California was too far from my family. The rubber band was stretched too tight, and those weren’t my trees. I figured if I lived in New Mexico when the apocalypse comes I could walk back to my family in Oklahoma. My Grandmother’d done it, after all. That’s where she met my Grandfather. (They lived in a dugout.)
Back to New Mexico. I moved to Santa Fe, built a straw bale house (bucket list), a labyrinth complete with minotaur, and a garden. I had kids in Albuquerque—who, of course, moved away.
I followed them to Austin. Then one day I finished a book, put my Kindle down and thought: Oh. My. I’m going to run out of books to read. I'd written all my life, just not fiction. But I sat down at my computer and wrote the first scene of Karda: Adalta Vol. I. Which ended up entirely different and in the middle of the book.
Now I’m back in Tulsa, which is where I started. My brother read Karda and liked it. He’s still mad I didn’t finish the one with the girl and the horses on the island, but he’d find something else to be mad about if I had.
I’m the oldest of seven, so I’m a control freak. Don’t ask to drive.
I don’t have a cat.
This is what I want my tombstone to read:
She Died of a Terminal Hot Flash at 105.
She Took her Fan.
She Drove a Red Porsche.