I write Middle Grade and dabble in chapter books. I’ve been a member of the SCWBI for 5 years now, and was a member of a local writing group until the world stopped last year.
Outside of writing, I like to garden, sing in a local choir and am learning to play the violin. Mother to two crazy kids, military spouse, and have a very chatty cat. Moved from the UK to the USA over fifteen years ago, and have lived in five States since then.
I love polite murders and fantasy elements. Talking animals, friendly monsters, dragons and unusual fairy folk. Anything fun and a twist on the obvious.
Graphic violence. Too much angst.
Lizzie Baxter is an 8-year-old monster hunter. She has a fully equipped Monster Hunting Kit, a lot of attitude and thirty-six monsters to her credit. Some hide in her sock drawer. Others hang out in her closet. But tonight she has two monsters under her bed, and they’ve been eating all her socks.
When the special monster spray makes her sneeze and brings Mom running, Lizzie has to try something else. Perhaps the Jingle Bells will work, or the Sword of Truth. No, thinks Lizzie, it’s time to use the loudest tool in her Monster Kit – the Roaring Tiger Torch. That will scare the monsters out from under the bed. She has to get rid of those monsters tonight, before Mom goes looking under her bed in the morning for all those socks. Mom can’t even deal with spiders. It’s up to Lizzie Baxter, Monster Hunter to sort them out.
“Night, night. Sleep tight.
Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
Mom tucks my blanket round me nice and snug. She drops a soft kiss on my nose. It tickles just a bit so I smile at her.
“’Night Mom,” I say.
Her strong hands pat my blanket flat, from shoulders to toes. She stops and frowns at me.
“Lizzie…. Are you wearing your boots in bed?”
My cheeks go pink. It’s really hard to lie to Mom. She always knows when the truth goes missing. But I have to have my boots on. Tonight I have a mission.
“Lizzie…. No boots in bed. We’ve talked about this before. Now let’s take them off.” Mom reaches under the blanket, and quick as a whip, tugs at my boots.
My beautiful, shiny, red rain boots. I’ve told her millions of billions of times why I need my boots on at bedtime, but she just never seems to get it. I sigh loudly and roll my eyes at her, but she ignores me. Off come the boots.
“But Mom,” I try one last time, in my special ‘please listen’ voice.
“No Lizzie.” Mom is using her made up my mind voice back at me. I don’t stand a chance. Her shoulders drop when she sees my sad face. “I’ll put them at the end of the bed. OK? Now, time to close those eyes. See you in the morning. Then we’ll have a good look for all those socks of yours that have gone missing.” One more tuck, one more kiss, lights out.
I have a MG magical realism manuscript out on query right now – The Flabbergast Farm Fights Back, – Molly has to save her grandmother’s farm full of talking animals when the neighbours complain and the nitpicking Government Inspector comes to shut them down.
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