To Annie, every story is a love story, even Moby Dick. Why else would Captain Ahab chase that pesky whale all over creation? And the relationship between Huck and Tom in Huckleberry Finn has bromance written all over it. So naturally she writes romance novels. Her heroines and heroes never behave exactly as she wants them to, being spirited, independent folk. And they talk back. When they should be listening. To her. But if they make their fetching way into readers’ hearts, well, then, she’s perfectly fine with that.
When she’s not wrestling her daydreams into prose—in which she uses words like fetching with wild abandon—Annie wields a palette, spade, and mandolin (the kitchen utensil, not the instrument) with less-than-wild abandon. The pen is mightier than the sword, but she’s scared to death of an empty canvas, rampant zucchini, and her food processor.
In possession of (too) many academic degrees, a well-worn passport, and stacks of Change of Address forms tracking her moves from one end of the United States to the other, Annie now resides in the Midwest with her husband, a gazillion photos of her two sons who’ve recently flown the nest, darn them, and an alarming number of books, swimming goggles, and shoes.