Human behavior in the midst of hardship caught my attention very early on, and my first stories were all pictures, no words.

I am a plodder, I make an appointment with my computer everyday and I have no idea where I am going.

I don't know. Maybe we're all chaos theorists. Lovers of pattern and predictability, we're scared shitless of explosive change. But we're fascinated by it, too. Drawn to it. Travelers tap their brakes to ogle the mutilation and mangled metal on the side of the interstate, and the traffic backs up for miles. Hijacked planes crash into skyscrapers, breached levees drown a city, and CNN and the networks rush to the scene so that we can all sit in front of our TVs and feast on the footage. Stare, stunned, at the pandemonium--the devils let loose from their cages.

I think I write fiction for the opportunity to get beyond the limits of my own life.

With destruction comes renovation.

Eastern Connecticut is very different from Western; we're more liverwurst than pâté, more bowling than polo.

Getting a job scared her but she was determined not to shy away from risk. That's what life's all about. Climbing out onto the airplane wing and jumping off.