My earliest memory is of the Cape May seashore. Two years old, I ride my stepfather's shoulders as he dives into a wave. My hands lose their grip on his neck. I'm tumbled beneath the surface, only to be thrust upon gritty beach sand minutes later. A year later finds me in Staten Island where my brother is born, and where in the backyard, I attempt to dig to China.

     It's the height of the great depression. My stepfather is a Chief Petty Officer in the U.S. Coast Guard. I'm five when we move to a small town hugging the Chesapeake Bay. I’m learning to read from signs I see from the train on the way to Baltimore on shopping trips with my mother and from the funny papers. I know that Annie Rooney’s dog is named Zero, but since the country school where I start first grade at age six doesn’t teach phonetics, it’s years before I know how to pronounce a ‘Z’.

     I’m nine and my brother is six when my stepfather’s transferred to the Boston Lighthouse. We live in an apartment in Chelsea, and must play quietly and wear slippers indoors so as not to disturb our neighbors. At least twice a week my mother takes us after school to see a double feature, which more often that not gives me nightmares..

     A year later—another transfer. This time to Cape Cod, Wood's Hole, to be specific.

     Now ten years old, I'm inured to being flung from pillar to post for seemingly neither rhyme nor reason. Knowing I'm destined to lose them once we move on, I hesitate to make new friends. I'm fast becoming a cynic when I stumble across the local library. Its exterior is stone; its interior gives off a musty smell. Much I care. Books cram the shelves in the children's section. Each Monday, I check out an entire series. I tie them to the shelf behind the seat of the bike I've earned babysitting and pedal home. At my mom's nightly call of 'lights out' I retreat under the covers with a flashlight. By Wednesday, I return the entire series and check out another dozen.

     World War II rages. Blackout curtains shroud every window. Now eleven, I no longer read exclusively from library shelves. I scarf up whatever books I find in the houses where I babysit. Had my mom known of my eclectic tastes, she'd have had a fit. But she's submerged in home-front projects and owns four separate uniforms. More, I suspect, than does my stepfather, who's off patrolling the Arctic.

     But back to my ongoing relationship with the local library. I've soon devoured the entire children's section and now pester the librarian for permission to read books shelved in the adult section. In short order, I discover Daniel Webster, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Abigail Adams, plus a cache of historical novels that feature seafaring whalers with spouses haunting widow walks.

     Best of all, for the next three years, the librarian hands over the list of current children's books and lets me choose. Thanks to her mentoring, I now consider the local library my best friend ever. Just the same, at age twelve, I'm only dimly aware that I've formed a life-long bond with all public libraries.

* * *

     Me and my kids circa Xmas 1964: L to right; April is 5, Anne is 8 and Stephen is 4. The slipper belongs to my husband, Gordon, who is very supportive of my writing ambitions. We live in Simi Valley CA. I write for the local paper. It's a weekly. I'm paid by the inch. All the foolscap I can use is my sole perk. 

     Early each Monday I bike to their office to turn in my weekly column then linger to write straight news and an occasional feature before the noon deadline. Yet I yearn to write short stories and later on--novels-- and am taking a Writer's Digest correspondence course in short fiction. For a birthday present, I talk my husband into adding to our budget half day nursery school sessions for my two youngest twice a week. 

     They are served a hot lunch and arrive home ready to nap, affording me ten free hours weekly to devote to writing fiction.  Ideally without undue interruption. Doesn't always work out--but that's the plan! 

     I love all three kids dearly, even though at times they try my patience.

     Gradually, I begin to write pieces that eventually sell nationally. Learning to market what one writes is a slow process. Especially so before the world wide web was created. 

     One of my fellow students at the local adult school creative writing class subscribes to the Writer's Digest. Skimming their list of winners for their yearly writing contest, Lyle notes I've won 93rd place for my article on Amblyopia, and alerts the local paper, who duly cite my accomplishment in a single inch of newsprint. Reading it, I realize most readers will think I sent it in and will likely think me an egomaniac. Ah well, in 1988, I win 22nd place in that year's contest for my radio script. At the very least a step up the ladder. 

     In 1966, I enroll in two advance writing classes at CSUN: script writing & short fiction. The script writing instructor assigns us Boule de Suif  by Guy de Maupassant, a tale related chiefly in exposition. He challenges us to turn in a version of its contents into a viable script. The assignment teaches me not only how to write credible dialogue but also to build a story structure sturdy enough to withstand a proverbial gale. The professor who teaches short fiction listens as we read our stories and to classmates' comments, then hands us his notes written on legal pad paper. These yellow sheets prove invaluable years later when revising. 

     In 1971, I have a short story published in Personal Romances and yet another there in 1972. In 1973, my article, New Directions in Confessions, appears in the May issue of The Writer. 

     Daughter. Anne, is now a high school junior. I'm invited to take part in their annual event featuring local authors. I dash off a short list of topics to discuss on an index card, then spend the night making something to wear. Mistake! Big mistake! 

     I'm placed in a large classroom crammed with students. Ten minutes later I've finished my spiel only to be informed I'm expected to speak an hour. I bomb; I want to die. The following year, I get invited back but am assigned the space of a broom closet. Anne, now a senior, shows up with a handful of friends. But I'm okay with that--having realized in the interim that writers need to learn to become comfortable speaking in public. Each year I improve. By the time all three kids have graduated from high school, I'm up to the mark. 

     In the late 1970s I attend my 1st writer's conference. It's a week long conference in Santa Barbara. Mornings are reserved for daily workshops. The one I chose is graced by the presence of Eudora Welty, a renowned story teller. She's a shy, gray-haired lady with buck teeth and stooped shoulders. She waits until all of us run out of  comments in regard to the piece just read, then layers her own remarks with Southern charm. At her afternoon recital attended by all, she favors us with her hilarious story, Why I live at the P.O.--a rare treat. 

     We're told beforehand to bring along our typewriters. I bring my portable Smith Corona, an early electric model that requires a hand return of its carriage. Upon arrival we're informed the subject of the conference is CHILDHOOD.  

     Which is how I came to write my short story, All the way to Heaven.  It won no prizes there at the conference. However, it did appear in the October 1982 issue of National Doll World, has received numerous awards and been reprinted in seven other venues to date.

* * *

     Ever a voracious reader, one evening in 1980 whilst passing my eldest daughter's bedroom door, I hear her laugh. Curiosity aroused, I knock to ask what she’s reading. It’s a Georgette Heyer novel. I borrow it after she’s done with it. Soon after I’m smiling, too. I keep right on smiling while reading the rest of Heyer’s books. Afterward, I search for similar tales set in the regency period. I discover Jane Austen’s books, still great reads even though written two centuries ago. I continue to search for regencies. Finding  precious few, I aspire to writing a regency novel and getting it published.  

     On the second day of April in 1981, I get the call from  Evelyn Grippo, the editor in charge of Harlequin’s newest line, traditional regencies, who says. “I’d have called you yesterday but was afraid you’d think it was an April’s fool joke.” She adds, “Harlequin wants to buy  your regency novel.”

     My teenage son, Stephen, overhears my end of the conversation and when I hang up says, "Wow, Mom, this calls for a hug!"

* * *

     In June of 1981, after a productive time visiting stately homes in London and its outskirts, I fly to Sweden a few days before Prince Charles marries Lady Dianna. I’m met by a Swedish cousin who whisks me off to his suburban apartment where I meet his wife and daughter. The next day they take me into town on the same route I’ll use daily to attend the 3rd International Crime conference at Stockholm’s Grand Hotel. The hotel abuts old town where we witness the changing of the guard at the King’s palace.  

     The final banquet of the conference is held on Mid-summer’s Eve. The sun never sets; the Swedes dance all night in the streets. Here I am decked out in pale blue and seated beside Mary Higgins Clark, a gracious lady in her prime both career-wise and otherwise. Not pictured, but present at the table is her then husband, Ray. Dessert is a strawberry mousse. The waiter charged with the far side of our table serves each neatly sliced portion with delicate precision. In stark contrast, our waiter scoops up a ragged serving and slaps it on our plates. Ray, who shares Mary’s irreverent  sense of humor, asks, “Do you suppose they’ll tear off his epauletttes once cornered in the kitchen?”

* * *

     This is me at John Ball’s christmas party in 1981. His walls display Asian art. Unshown is his magnificent jade collection.

     Since 1978, I’ve been a member of his Alpha Group. We meet twice a month at his home. Most of us are published in short fiction, but no novels as yet, though I’ve just signed a contract for my regency. Each time we make a sale we’re expected to show up with a bottle or two of champagne to celebrate.

     Like most writers, John has his foibles, yet his saving grace is his genuine appreciation of good writing. Another  decided plus is his sense of humor. He often tells jokes on himself. For example, the year his first novel In the Heat of the Night won an Edgar, it also won a Golden Dagger... 

* * *

     In 1987, my regency The Earl's Comeuppance is a Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Finalist.

* * *

     Here I am at the awards banquet of The Romance Writers annual conference in the summer of 1989 and this time in Boston. The lady in the aqua dress is my friend Margaret Brownley. Then following counterclockwise is myself, Linda Prine, Carol Prescott, Debbi Wood (in white), Laura Taylor (up for an award for Honorbound), and Kathleen Creighton. I don’t recall the pleasant smile in the royal blue jacket, but if it happens to be yours then please do let me know!

     In December of the same year, I get a call from Walker and Company. They wish to buy one of my regencies! My first novel in hardcover is published nine months later.

Here I am pictured in September of 1990 at my first book signing!