Fiction from the Ragged Edge of Faith
Across the Bridge felt the most personal of the three novels I’ve written. As I’ve watched Todd’s body slowly decline these past nine years, I’ve struggled with God and the suffering in the world.
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When I was a kid, the Boxcar Children was one of my favorite series. I went on adventures with them. I was fond of quiet Violet, amused by Benny. I admired capable, big-sister Jessie. I savored the beauty of Prince
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In maintaining the rules of the world I’ve created with strokes of a pen, I have a better appreciation for why God doesn’t always intervene in our lives. Different genres of literature are set in various times and places, and
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Ten years after abandoning his family, Aimee’s father returns with throat cancer. She wants to forgive him, but he’s as narcissistic and unrepentant as ever. She’s comforted by Russ, who’s everything her father wasn’t—present and gentle. But…
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“Hyvää päivää.” “Where you live?” “Out Mohawk way.” “Yous get lots of snow dere, hey.” “Yeah, we woke to two feet today. I scooped myself out then drove Hough’on, but dey hardly got none.” I didn’t think I had an
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“This is why I could never write this.” My husband, Todd, read a line from my romance novel he was editing. He thought it was a bit over the top, too sentimental, cheesy. I laughed out loud. “I got that
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“Did you think I was as old as you?!” He looked at me incredulously. Ouch. I was at a coffee shop with a writing group. A fellow writer also grew up in the area. “What school did you go to?”
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