Words are my currency, my refuge.
I was the kid who feigned illness in school so I could curl up on our gold velour couch at home and read the day away. Who filled composition notebooks with large, loopy wishes and daydreams. Who stayed up all night with the clip-light speeding through Nancy Drew and Judy Blume.
A proud English major in college, I found myself, post-graduation, entirely at home as a copy editor for a small-town daily in the Southern Tier of New York. Since then, my path hasn’t always been expected, but it’s always been about the words.
Whether writing headlines, ad copy, features or fiction, words — and the stories they weave — is where the magic happens.
Story is the stuff of life, and life is made sense of in story.
What, and how, we share says so much about who we are and what we believe.
Storytelling is more than just fingers at the keyboard and a vague sense of sentence structure. It’s the lovechild of imagination and sensibility, a singular way of observing and translating, and — most importantly — connecting, human to human.