I was born on a Thursday. What’s that prehistoric saying about Thursday’s child?

‘Thursday’s child has far to go.’

Errr….

I grew up in California. Sadly, not by the coast, but close, just a hop, skip and a car ride away. My Grandfather had a vineyard. A small one…in the middle of cow country. Imagine that on a hot summer’s day. Nice visual. I’m the oldest. <Read> bossiest. Where is this going? Remember the whole Thursday’s child thing, I have far to go. So, try to keep up. And since you’re along for the journey—I hope you’re wearing comfy shoes. Anyhow, I started my writing career at a very young age. It started with imaginary friends. What? You try living in a place with just grapes to talk to. I published my first story at the tender age of eight. It was four lines and about a frog.
I won some silly award. This meant I got out of school for the day and went to a banquet thingy. The rest is sorta froggy. (Punny huh?)

The four-line story grew into bigger stories, written in notebooks, on binder paper. I’ve always written stories.

Life’s pathways split and took me on a few winding roads into strange but fun careers. Sorta like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, except without the tornado, the dog and the scarecrow. Okay maybe not like Dorothy…

I started writing longer, complicated stories. Then I did something that shocked even me. I started reading lots of books. I learned something: in order to improve your writing, you must read and read and read. Now I have paperbacks living under my bed, in my closets (note the plural), overflowing from bookcases (note the plural, again). I’m breeding paperbacks! Or at least that’s my excuse. <Grin> It will be our little secret. You can keep a secret, right? Right?

Picture of me at 16.

My life condensed. Read. Write. Read. Write. Hang out with friends. Feed fat cat before she bites me. Catch the latest episode of Supernatural, drool over Jensen Ackles. Read. Write. Read. Write. There’s sleep in there somewhere.

That’s Kitty in a nutshell.