I started writing when I was two years old. I’d concoct stories while my mother wrote them down for me, not even blinking an eye when I killed off the mother-dinosaur in my fictional dinosaur family, sending the baby dinosaurs off to live with their dinosaur grandparents. So, due to my mother’s lack of censorship every time I made up something borderline controversial, I’ve grown into an adult that mostly just writes borderline controversial things.
And that, my friends, is how you shift blame.
I live in Brisbane, Australia, with my Husband and our first-born son. He’s a dog, and he wasn’t born so much as bought, but he’s still our heir. We also have a couch, this one really nice lamp, and a few potted plants: Wally, Salvador, and Pinky. There was another, Alexander the Great, but he’s dead now. My writing process consists of a cycle of skipping. I skip sleep so that I can write, I skip meals so that I can write, I skip shopping so that I can write, and then I skip meals again because I didn’t go shopping. In the end, I skip writing because I’ve made myself sick.
It’s not a process I recommend.
Update: Pinky is now also dead. Turns out, I’m really bad at keeping plants alive. So I bought three more: Cedric the Registered Sex Offender, Dostoyevsky, and Tula.
Update#2: Pink was resurrected. Her new name is Pinky Reloaded Uncensored 2.0.
Update#3: Pinky is dead again. I’ve overcompensated with three more: Django Unchained, King, and Steve.
Update#4: I have an actual garden now. Cedric the Registered Sex Offender and Wally are the reigning monarchs. All the rest are in a daily struggle to survive.