I've always been hungry for words. I need a book, a newspaper, a magazine. For lack of those I'll read the back of a cereal box, the label on a bottle of shampoo. I can't drive without radio voices spilling story. I can't clean without a podcast in my ear.

Always, I'm consuming words.

Professionally, I write. Authors share the creation stories behind their books, and I write them into articles for Spine Magazine. Clients contract me to tell stories — about the history and mysteries of Nantucket, the thinking behind a website's design, the transformative powers of strong IT.

Creatively, I write. About a young nun leaving a Quebec farm to teach raggedy children in industrial New England. (The A3 Review) About Mrs. Jablowski submitting her winter feet to the machinations of a pedicurist. (Apeiron Review). About a mother desperate to find her child (Punchnel's). About a man shoveling snow, relieved to find himself alone. (BANG!)

In the Long Ago, I worked many jobs, some with pens in my hand, some without. I worked as a Burger King employee, a telemarketer, a drugstore cashier, a banquet server, a secretary, a receptionist, a restaurant hostess, an editorial assistant, a housecleaner, a public relations specialist, a fact checker, a research editor, a reporter, a newspaper editor, and more.

Always, I looked for the words. Words on nametags, words on French fry cartons, words on paper bags and plastic bags, on cash registers and computer screens and menu boards, words spoken through drive-thru windows, over landlines, down checkout lines, across kitchens and banquet halls and newsrooms. I've always been hungry for words.


Prefer the traditional resume format? Here you go!

You can read other people's words about me here