Who I Am

I’m a writer. There. I said it. Whew. My first love is writing romance … inspirational romance. But I also dabble in poetry, edit manuscripts, lead a local writers group, mentor fellow writers, and write “love stories” for disc jockeys/emcees to showcase at wedding receptions. I’ve won a few poetry awards and have published a chapbook, The Kulwicki Chronicles, that has been displayed in the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, NC. (You can order a copy under “My Books”!)

I married Rod, my best friend, in 2008. We live happily in Suffolk, Virginia, across the street (literally) from the Great Dismal Swamp National Wildlife Refuge on almost 12 acres of woods and meadows with our toast-loving horse, Kizzy, our cat, Louie L’Amour, and the ever-present threat of wisteria overtaking our back porch.

My prayer is that this blog will encourage you to swat away doubt, poke insecurity in the eye, and follow hard after your dreams … whatever they may be.

Where I’m From          

I am from Nancy Drew and
the Bobbsey Twins,
from Uncle Ben’s Converted Rice,
and ships too long at sea.

I am from military housing,
temporary dwellings,
and the blue Rambler station wagon that rusted through the floorboards but lasted longer than too many of our friendships.


I am from lemony magnolias,
oleander leis fashioned by
grade-school fingers,
birds of paradise, pink sand,
and balmy waters.

I am from square dancing and
love of country,
from Garces and Garcia
and Worley, Hedden, and Gibson.

I am from the gift givers,
the diminutive,
and the sometimes too close-knit.

From never let a man know how much you love him and you can do anything you set your mind to… unless you’re a girl.


I am from Navy chapels
and felt boards at Sunday school,
saying prayers by rote—
God is great, God is good—
and holding fast to Jesus
since I was five.

I’m from Gumlog Mountain and Guantanamo, tobacco barns and sugar cane fields, fresh-churned butter and arroz con pollo.

From the seafarer of the
Georgia Blue Ridge Mountains
who married the raven-haired
Cuban doll,
from grandparents I never knew—
even the grandmother I met,
and the brother who
ran track to spite asthma,
who sings and makes us
ache with laughter.

I am from
faded slide carousels
of Dad’s sailor travels to Rome and Athens
and from albums and boxes of black and whites
and bleached colors shining the history and memories of love and family holding strong.