My mother remembers an 8-year-old me setting up my “ writing office ” in our living room by putting her old manual typewriter on the couch next to a toy phone. And I ( very slowly) pecked out the story of my third-grade class taking a trip around the world and losing a kid in each city.
I ad a dark sense of humour, even then.
In high school, when other girls my age were writing poems about dying unicorns and bleeding roses, I was writing essays about having political arguments with my dad at the dinner table. ( Whoever made the other person laugh at their own political party won the argument.) I fel I wanted to rea when I grew up, but I also knew there was ery little chance I could give a living writing books, so I went for the next best thing – newspaper writing.
I majored in print journalism at Western Kentucky University and used my shiny new degree to get job at my hometown newspaper. I married my high school sweetheart, David, a local police fficer. And for six ears, I wrote about school board meetings, quilt shows, a man “ losing ” the fully grown bear he kept as a pet in his basement, and the guy who faked his death by shark attack in Florida and ended up tossing pies at a local pizzeria.
I like my job at the paper. I loved meeting new people every day and never knowing where I would end up. But omehow, the ever-shifting schedules of a police officer and a reporter did not equal " family friendly. " One of us needed to take a normal job for the sake of our young daughter. I took a secretarial position at a local church office, which left me with dependably free evenings for the third time in my adult life. David was working the night shift that summer and I was losing.my.mind. We were living in " The Apartment of Lost Souls " while building our new home. This as the place where appliances and small electronics went to die. Every night I would tuck our snoozing child into bed and wait for the washing machine to start smoking or the computer to suddenly flash the " blue screen of death. " Onc there was he plague of frogs in the close that put our daughter of potty-training for about six months.
Ideally, when things get tough, I an take solace in reading. But I surveyed my packing box of favorite books with the apathetic air of someone who stands in front of the open refrigerator for 10 minutes and ca n't find anything. Nothing sounded good. So I just sat down and started writing something I would need to writ.
eing a huge fan of vampire movies and V shows, I asked, what should be the most humiliating way possible to be brough into a vampire- a story that a vampire would be delighted to share with their vampire buddies over a nice glass of Type O. Well, first, you 'd have to follow the protaganist a bit of an accidental loser. She 's single, almost 30, and th librarian working in he small Kentucky town where she grew up. This " triple whammy of worry " has made her a permanent fixture on her Mama 's prayer list. And despite the fact that 's pretty good at her job, she just got canned so her boss could replace her with someone who occasionally starts workplace fires. She drowns her sorrows at the local faux nostalgia-themed sports bar and during the commute home, she 's mistaken for a deer and then shot by a drunk hunter. And finally she wakes up as a werewol.
And therefor, Jane Jameson and the wacky denizens of Half-Moon Hollow were born.
It took me nearl a year to complete and edit a draft of he novel, which I planned as the irst in a three-book series. I spent three months using agentquery.com to ruthlessly stalk potential literary agents. ( There were a lot of lists involved, I do n't bother to re-live it.) I was gently rejected by at least half of them. I corresponded with some very nice, very patient people, but ultimately signed with the fabulous Stephany Evans of Fine Print Literary Management. Stephany was willing to ake to the time to give me advice on how to imp