Family legend has it that I read before I was potty-trained.
I wrote my first “book” at age 6. . . just found it among my papers recently while cleaning out the old family house. At 13, I wrote a novel.
When I was 14, I remember hearing my high school English teacher read T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” While the rest of the class seemed to glaze over, waiting for the lunchbell, I felt as if someone had blown the top of my head off. Poetry! That was it! I will write poetry. You are allowed to laugh, for a moment: What schoolgirl didn’t scribble bad poetry at some point or another in her lifetime?
In college, I was fortunate enough to study with James Scully. Jim, an incredible poet and human being, saw something in me that no one had. He challenged me to push the boundaries of my work. He gave me endless reading lists. Most importantly, he validated my vain suspicions that perhaps there really was something there.
It has been a brilliant journey. Life remains good.