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Penny McCall
Penny McCall (aka Penny McCusker) was born and raised in
southeastern Michigan, the seventh of nine children, whose
claim to fame was reading five books a week in grade school.
Needless to say, her obsession with the written word only
grew from theredespite a short, and misguided, foray
into the world of computer science (the "sensible" job path).
After earning her associates degree, she enrolled at the
University of Michigan, and finally figured out that the
reason she got those puzzled looks from the other computer
programmers was because she wasn't really one of them. She
changed her major to History and Englishand then came
detour number two, also known as marriage and childbirth. A
son was followed by a daughter in 14 months, and then
another son five years later.
At home, with no job and no night school for the first time
in her life, she filled the kids' nap times and her evening
hours with crafts; ceramics, macramé, stained glass and
especially crocheting, for which she sold two original
patterns for afghans. Ultimately, of course, those other
creative pastimes didn't satisfy the need to writeor
to get those voices in her head to quiet down.
With the help and support of one of her sisters, she began
to writeand write and write and writeand finally
sold her first novel in 1997. Four more followed, until that
line closed down in 2001, and after a little hiatusand
yet another change of directionshe began to write
humor, if only to satisfy her inner smart aleck. She placed
second in the 2002 PASIC contest, Harlequin bought the
story, and she's been happily writing for them under Penny
McCusker ever since.
She still lives in Michigan, with her husband, three
children and two dogs whose life of leisure she envies but
would never be able to pull off. She works as an accountant
by day, which feeds the side of her brain that craves order
and normalcy. The rest of her time is devoted to writing
whatever pops into the creative (and questionably sane) side
of her brain. Her children and husband have come to accept
this strange preoccupation she has with imaginary people.
The dogs don't worry about it, as long as they're fed
occasionally and allowed to nap on whatever piece of
furniture strikes their fancy. Come to think of it, that
pretty much goes for the husband, too.
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