When I was young, I was surrounded by love bugs, my Maw-Maw’s rasping laughter that jiggled her belly, a field full of cows, and more Pentecostal hair than you could shake a stick at. My Paw-Paw, driven closer to heaven by his long, lean build, was the pastor. He was forthright and sincere, so when he smiled his sideways smile and explained to me that only liars lived in Georgia, the salt-and-pepper twirl of hair at the top of his head somehow drove home the point. This fact was a down-right insult to me as I was far too young to understand the twinkle in his eye. Alas, much to my protests, squalling, and outright ornery demeanor, my family moved to Georgia anyway.

 I’m a long way from the swinging moss of a southeast Texas evening and the bayou nights that sink into your skin. Somewhere along the edge of November, I’ll promenade into my 38th year with more knowledge about who lives in Georgia than my Paw-Paw.

When I consider how to box the chaotic gale of creativity, lipstick and sarcasm that I am, I came up with this:

I’m definitely a writer of southern fiction, probably a writer of dark, twisty things, and maybe a writer who hasn’t quite decided where to hide the bodies. All of that is, of course, speculation. Or is it?

I live in Georgia with my dog, Sherwood (a half-Newfoundland mutt who believes he’s part bunny and part balloon animal) and a very healthy Imagination, which I keep in an igloo in the back yard.

I’m heavily tattooed, but barely pierced. If I’m not geeking out over one of my many fandoms, playing with my camera or fidgeting with some graphic design project, I’m probably wasting away at my pay-the-bills job at a call center. The excitement there is palpable…and rather tastes like Clorox Wipes and regret.