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I began writing fiction in 2000. I needed an outlet for my thoughts and feelings following the death of my mother. At the time, I was overwhelmed with emotion and my work counseling parents was very intense. I was writing a monthly parenting column for a Boston newspaper and working on a nonfiction parenting guide. But it's in writing fiction that I found my home. For me novel writing is a wonderful catharsis and a deeply personal means of creative expression.
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When I was in high school, I was a major eco-head. I belonged to Greenpeace, insisted on recycling everything not nailed to the floor, and gave up eating meat, despite my family's innate fondness for... um, meat. I was probably pretty insufferable, but people put up with me for the most part. I remind myself of this phase when dealing with self-righteously insufferable kids as a teacher.
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My novel Best Intentions built on this kernel of an idea: What happens when you think you know what the person you love is thinking — and you're dead wrong? I think we've all experienced this in various relationships — you may act with the best intentions to make someone else happy but without real communication, the results can be disastrous.
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Back in 1981, when I was ten years old, my life had become a foreign-language film without subtitles. Everywhere I went, people spoke English, which was a problem because all I knew was Korean. My mother, my two sisters, and I had made the trek from Seoul, South Korea to reunite with my father in New Jersey, and once we got our bearings, it was time to get to work.
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