When I was little, I lived in the sunny (snowy) mountains of Idaho. It was fairytale beautiful there, except in late winter, when it became one massive, filthy snowbank.

In high school, I lived in a hilly Idaho university town and wrote secret scraps of poetry about music and trees and boys. Eventually, I went to college, where I stayed for a long time and graduated with an MA in Literature. Along the way, I got married, had some lovely children, and became a decent pianist and a lackluster gardener.

These days, when people ask me what I do, I say, “I write.” Then they ask me what I do for fun, and I say, “I write.” At that point, they give me a funny (pitying?) look and wander away. And I think, fine, that might seem boring on the outside. But on the inside? That’s a whole other story.