“What kind of books do you write?”

For someone who rarely finds herself speechless, this oft-posed, should-be-anticipated question always causes silent pause.


I lament with a cup of Constant Comment while the Great Horned hoots his midnight calls. Irony peppered with appropriateness. I finally give proper consideration to the question.

Life’s pivotal moments are unexpected. We plug along, following a path designated for us at some point in the distant past. Then, we become restless. Hungry for new beginnings and desires that had idled dormant for too long.

Some of us change course with determination and confidence fueled by frustration. We sacrifice and struggle in the name of the dream. In search of freedom, passion, joy.  Relief and pride arrives with each subtle accomplishment.

Those precious few find themselves staring at an existence they set out to create. These are my people. That is my tribe. They forego the cable, expensive phones, impressive mortgages, and showy cars in the name of their plight, realizing how it all keeps them from what they truly want in life. Those who don’t settle for a norm that fits too tight.

Why is wanderlust and a life-less(more?)-ordinary so essential to me? Why are the simple pleasures more meaningful than what society tells me I should strive for? I try not to question this too much for fear that I might stop my own journey. Maybe it’s my Pilgrim blood mixed with the other ancestors who fought for our country’s great Revolution. An American spirit that ignites and inspires. The urge to go and not follow is always beating just below my skin.

What do I write about?

Stories about the journeys. 





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