There was a loud crack. It reverberated through the forest. The birds stopped chirping. The breeze stopped whispering. All was primordially quiet . . .
Miss Footloose
Miss Footloose
I hail from the Netherlands and grew up eating lots of Gouda cheese, riding a bike to school, and not wearing wooden shoes. Having adventurous Dutch genes, I married an American Peace Corps volunteer in Kenya, East Africa, in an odd if humorous 10-minute ceremony that fortunately has stuck so far. My man is a development economist and I follow him around the world and watch him toil running projects that assist business and agricultural enterprises in developing countries. I have cooked, shopped, mothered, traveled and written stories in Africa, Asia, Europe, the US and the Middle East. I'm an expat writer not living in paradise (like Peter Mayle or Frances Mayes). I do not drink wine from my own grapes or tend my own olive groves. I have, however, visited my butcher's bedroom in Palestine, eaten fertility sausage in Kenya, and almost landed in prison in Uganda.
-
-
A loud barrage of furious words slammed me in the back. It was shocking!
-
Writing Harlequin romance novels is fun, but the romance with my own American prince is not fiction but the real deal.
-
Little American Boy gets acquainted with the Big World: Not everybody goes to Kindergarten and not everybody owns a car!
-
Our phone number was very popular. Strangers called us all the time, but were irate when I answered. They didn’t want a peppy foreigner on the line. They wanted somebody …