We are homesick most for the places we have never known. —Carson McCullers     

The Moves

I was born and raised on Long Island (same house, eighteen years) but bolted soon after high school. In fact, leaving town was my specialty for decades. I have both endured and embraced the distractions of nomadic life, moving more than a dozen times as a military spouse and freelance writer. I was (am?) always planning or imagining another life. 

Along the way, I lived longest in Puerto Rico and only ever felt nostalgic for Maine. Then, I accidentally spent over a decade in Virginia Beach before finding my way to the Blue Ridge Mountains, where I now hide in plain sight, in awe of the rocky earth. 

The Longing

Many of my moves were dictated by circumstance; a few were my choice. But homesickness—the uneasy sense that I come from or belong somewhere else—has been with me every minute of my life, even in my childhood home, from which I did not move for eighteen years. 

Despite my restlessness, I’m not a free spirit. I’m a true homebody. I don’t travel light and flit about with ease, unconnected. I drag hundreds of books (and other stuff) from place to place. I put down roots fast, nest fiercely, unpack in a whirl—curating and claiming spaces: the chair by the fire, the corner of the garden. I settle deeply while still contemplating other lives and possibilities. There’s always a story in my head, and it’s not always fiction.

The Writing

I write a lot, with little external impact. Most of my work never leaves my orbit. (I rarely submit and am often rejected.) Still, a few pieces are out there, published or forthcoming, and lately, I am compelled to send out more stories to see if they can find a permanent home better than I have. 

Either way—in print or not—I’m all about composition and editing, on the page and off. I earn a living writing business content and proposals, but I also write novels, stories, essays, reviews, poems, posts, letters, diaries, logs, journals, and word lists. I even document my daily walks (go ahead and laugh—it’s obsessive, but if I haven’t scribbled or typed it, I don’t really understand it yet). 

Other Edits

And it’s not just words—I’m always revising something. I draw (badly) to relax and then go back and add doodles. I rework my garden all year long, like it’s always a shitty first draft. I rearrange my furniture compulsively. I even picture rearranging other people’s furniture. If I’ve ever been to your house, I definitely thought about where I’d move your couch (and would’ve done it if you’d just turned your back long enough). And despite loving my mountain place, I just can’t rule out moving again.

So, feel free to diagnose me. But maybe read a few pages before running away.