My oldest friend remembers me telling stories when I was five years old, but I didn’t decide to be a writer until I was ten. That was when I discovered not all authors were dead. Then I grew up and managed what every aspiring writer longs for–I became an accountant.
But accounting was good for me. It helped me count every penny in terms of how much writing time it could buy me. And so I shared a flat and lived in a garret and wrote my first novel. When it made a splash, I quit accounting and didn’t look back.
The secret of my work is that, however far apart in theme or time, my characters are always teaching me what I need to learn. I’ve known trauma–so have they, using their experience to bring others out of darkness. I’ve been scarred by history, my own and the world’s (my parents were holocaust survivors), and my scarred characters are also beautiful, finding courage in friendship and making their lives anew.
I’m not good at knitting or sewing yet do both. I can’t cook and don’t. I love to walk and take photos of tucked away alleys. When I started writing my first novel, I was a young woman and had no family. I’ve got grey hair now, a husband who cooks, and two grown daughters. There’s another book in the works because my characters aren’t done reaching through me to others. That’s the beauty of stories. They’re mine and yours and theirs, something new each time.