I'm a life-long resident of Nova Scotia, Canada, but I spend a lot of time in Regency England with Jane Austen's beloved characters. I've written more than a dozen Austenesque stories--novels, novellas, and short stories for anthologies.
With my husband, I share a love of our adult twin daughters, the great outdoors, geocaching, and watching All Creatures Great and Small as well as British crime dramas.


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I was, and am, an avid reader but never thought I'd be a writer.
In second grade, our class was assigned homework that horrified me. We were to write a short story. Good grief! At home that afternoon, I sat at the kitchen table and wailed at my mother. "I don't know how to write a story! What would I write about? How am I supposed to write a story? I can't. I just can't!" My mother sat down beside me and told me a tale about flying pigs. Fortunately, inspiration—rather than anything nasty, courtesy of swine in flight—hit me.
Out on the water with my dad years later, sitting atop the prow of the Cape Islander boat he built, I held on tight as the craft rode the swells. It was a glorious day. Hot sun beat upon my face, which was cooled by salt spray. The wind was in my hair. I was fearless and free, at one with the sea and sky. Overcome by a feeling of awe, I longed to write poetry about the way I felt. Van Morrison said about his song "Into the Mystic", 'I guess the feeling was about being part of the universe.' I, however, despaired about not having the know-how to pay justice to such a wondrous emotion.
It wasn't until Grade 10 English class that I once again had to write a short story. Although eight years had passed, I still was horrified by the mere thought. That time, I cried to myself, not my mom. I don't know how to write a story! What would I write about? How am I even supposed to write a short story? I can't. I just can't! So I put an LP on the turntable and cranked up the volume. The third song on the album was about rival gangs. The fourth featured a street fight. Fortunately, inspiration, rather than a fist, hit me. The next day, I handed in a tale of bad boys, brawling, and blood. Although I received an excellent mark, I tried to forget I ever wrote about such a gruesome chain of events. Towards the end of that school year, my teacher informed me my story had been chosen for inclusion in a compilation of the best works from all the English classes in the school. Utterly mortified, I pretended I hadn't heard him.
Afterwards, for a couple decades, the only words written by me were ones on cheques, grocery lists, correspondence to friends, odious business letters, etc.
Finally and thankfully, I discovered JAFF (Jane Austen Fan Fiction). After devouring other writers' stories, there came an aha moment, and I cried, "Wait a minute! Maybe I can do that." So I did.
