Born and bred in North Carolina where the piedmont meets the sandhills, I grew
up on a modest two-mule tobacco farm that has been in the family for over a
hundred years. Tobacco is no longer grown on the farm, but the memories linger —
the singing, the laughter, the gossip that went on at the bench as those rank
green leaves came from the field, the bliss of an icy cold drink bottle pressed
to a hot sweaty face, getting up at dawn to help “take out” a barn, the sweet
smell of soft golden leaves as they’re being readied for auction. Working in
tobacco is one of those life experiences I’m glad to have had. I’m even gladder
that it’s something I’ll never have to do it again.
After high school came two years of college until a summer job at the Pentagon
led to marriage, a tour of duty in Italy, then several years in my husband’s
native Brooklyn. I had always loved writing and for the first few years, wrote
nothing but short stories and very bad poetry. (The legendary Ruth Cavin of St.
Martin’s Press once characterized my verses as “doggerel. But inspired
doggerel.”)
Eventually, I backed into writing novels about NYPD Lt. Sigrid Harald, mysteries
set against the New York City art world. But love of my native state and a
desire to write out of current experiences led to the creation of District Court
Judge Deborah Knott, the opinionated daughter of a crusty old ex-bootlegger and
youngest sibling of eleven older brothers. (I was one of only three, so no, I’m
not writing about my own family.)
We’ve been back on a corner of the family land for many years now. My city-born
husband discovered he prefers goldfinches, rabbits, and the occasional quiet
deer to yellow cabs, concrete, and a city that never sleeps. A son and two
granddaughters are icing on our cake.