WHY I WRITE YA
I am a childless mother.
Five years ago an aching dark void expanded inside of me. It grew and grew until I thought it would swallow my soul. I didn’t know what to do, so I paced around, praying for a revelation. Then I realized what was wrong. The void I was feeling was the empty space a teenage daughter would have filled if I had given birth sixteen years earlier.
At the same time, a lifelong subconscious desire made it’s debut appearance in my conscious mind—the desire to write a novel. So I stopped pacing around the house, bought myself a vintage Apple Clamshell, and joyfully sat down to write my first YA novel, Frenched.
I knew zero about writing novels and was equally unaware that in the 20 years since I’d left high school, there’d been an explosion of young adult literature hitting the shelves.
So I started reading YA novels, devouring them, hundreds of them. I’d fallen in LOVE!
My inner child is sixteen. Passionate, optimistic, romantic, adventurous, bursting with excitement sixteen.
And that is why I write YA.
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