Jessie has spent most of her life living in the Pacific Northwest. She has a husband, two children, and an old dog who believes she's the best servant he's ever had.
She's always been fascinated with the odd and horrifying. With things that go bump in the night and cause the hairs along her neck to rise in alarm. When she was a kid, she couldn't get enough zombies, vampires, and ghosts. Throw in a few werewolves and monsters and her imaginary world was perfect.
At almost fifty years old, she's read the gambit from horror to romance, from true crime to urban fantasy, from comedic horror to sci-fi. Her preference changes with the years, sometimes with the months, but always returns to those things that scare her.
Her stories are influenced by writers like Stephen King and Dean Koontz. From stories by David Wong, Glynn James, Karen Marie Moning, Mark Tufo, P.S. Power, and Neil Gaiman. She enjoys stories with a twist, and loves the unexpected most of all.
I think every writer remembers the first time something they wrote spoke to them. I was in grade school when I wrote mine—a story about a girl who drowned. The details of the tale have faded to almost nothing, and I only have a vague idea about the end, but it's still a powerful memory. The initial excitement, the ensuing heart-pounding fear, and the eventual debilitating sadness still thrum inside me when I reminisce.
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I didn't write much after that, preferring to get lost in my daydreams than write them out. I daydreamed while walking. I daydreamed while driving. I daydreamed when I should have been focusing. I kept stories alive for months at a time, but I never considered creating anything tangible. Often, when I woke from sleep with a dream pulling at my thoughts, I'd ponder the possibilities before letting the idea drift away.
Until I had the dream I couldn't push aside. I remember laying in the dark and going over it in my mind, adding details and changing it into something that left me wanting to do more than think about it.​
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The next day, I wrote my first story as an adult.
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That piece of work is still unpublished—locked away on a USB drive like bones stored in a box. An incomplete body with no life. It's missing the muscle and tendons needed to make the body strong. There's no blood to carry nutrients and keep the body plump with life and energy. And the finishing touches that would complete it—the skin, the hair, the color of the eyes—have not been considered at all. It's a skeleton and nothing more. I may go back and rework it into something presentable at some point, but for now, it's my skeleton, and mine alone.
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I hope my writing will elicit the same response from my readers that I experience when I write. An infatuation with a story that I don't want to end.
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