I grew up in northern Canada, surrounded by pine trees, lakes, and six months of winter (now I live in southern Canada, where we have nine months of rain). I was a child of the ’80s, which in my neck of the woods meant big hair, purple pants, and the entire collection of Baby-Sitters’ Club books.
I hadn’t planned on becoming a writer. I got my Bachelor’s degree in Child and Youth Care and started working as a music and preschool teacher. I still loved to read and found myself returning to middle grade and young adult books when I was in my late twenties. I was standing on the playground at preschool one day when an idea for a book came to me, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. It took seven months for me to work up the courage to start Chapter 1. After that, I thought it would take me a few months. I was kidding myself. I simply had no idea how to take my idea and turn it into a book. I took a writing course, spent hours playing out scenes in my head, and constantly debated ideas with my husband, whose instinct for narrative development is nearly always spot on. Most importantly, I wrote. And then rewrote. And rewrote again. And at some point I realized that I was a writer, and that if I stopped writing part of me would be missing.
I am currently working on my second novel, the first in a middle grade detective series. I’m still a teacher, because somehow wild groups of children keep me sane.