Bio

THE JUST-A-NIBBLE VERSION:

The power of story to transform lives and influence culture is something that drives me in ways I can’t explain. In short, my own story is a thirsty pursuit of truth and all things divine, the desire to know God’s will, and a love for (and desire to reach out to) those who deeply suffer, especially oppressed children–with lots of laughter along the way.

I graduated with a BA in English and an emphasis in Creative Writing years ago and studied British Literature at the University of Cambridge. Former Poet Laureate of the United States, Mark Strand, said one of my poems sounded like a Hallmark card. Well. That’s as far as my literary credentials go.

THE SOUP AND SALAD VERSION: My school-of-life experience has been much more instructive. In 2001, when my children were 7, 11, and 13, I was in a potentially life-threatening situation and did all I could to bring them with me out of state so I could be safe and continue to nurture and raise them. In the end I needed to leave alone. I’d been a stay-at-home mother so I grieved for the fact their lives had been turned upside down, including mine. We’ve been living nearly 2400 miles apart since then.

To back up a bit, I began Secret Speakers thirteen years ago in our cute little Cape-style home on Main Street–in Richmond, Vermont. It was a non-fiction book that had several revisions over the years. Then, in 2006, at a time when I was incredibly sad about not being able to mother my children day-to-day, one day I asked God, “What can I create out of my life that’s good?”

From the moment I asked that question, I couldn’t stop writing. I knew, as in KNEW, I was supposed to re-write the book. But it was supposed to be a young adult fantasy, not non-fiction. I wrote it for my children with hopes it would bring us together in whatever way God would see fit, and I wrote it as a way to–well, create something good.

Our separation has been difficult, but I have seen the hand of God in their lives and in mine: they’ve grown into the most amazing young adults I know. I love, love, loved being a mother to them when they were small. We were all so present and they filled me full of wonder. Now, I have grown to respect them as individuals with incredible gifts to offer the world and those around them. They give me so much just by being who they are. They are loving, kind, and compassionate people. I’m so proud of them.

This book has been a blessing for me because it’s given me purpose when I thought I’d lost everything. More importantly, I’ve seen it bring us closer together, because they each helped me with different aspects of creating it. I believe the most difficult parts of life turn out to be our most beautiful trials, especially when we stay focused on creating something good out of the mucky muck. At least that’s happened with me.

I’m fulfilled by my life every day, although I live with chronic pain that keeps me home more often than not. No matter what each day brings, there is always something that fills me with joy and a sense of gratitude for the gift of being here on earth. In my very normal, everyday world I like to get together with family over dinner and play board games. When those times come, we get very little done because we tell stories and laugh.

Let’s see, what else would I want to know about me if I wasn’t me? I like to go on thinking walks, I am mesmerized by beautiful trees, different languages and cultures, walking on mountain trails, waterfalls, mossy grottos, and I thrive on creating things: felted wool mittens and purses, making bracelets, digging in the dirt to watch things grow (then eat them), and making up recipes as I go along. Anything that smacks of Mediterranean, Greek, or Indian food? I’m at the table with my fork poised. Picnics. Eating outside. Ahhh. I have a weakness for fine Italian leather shoes, handbags, dark chocolate, and shiny cars, and I love to experience different cultures. The fuel that fills me and keeps me going though is prayer, going to church every Sunday, and remembering that life is very short. The most important thing to me is being right with God, myself, and others.

THE MAIN COURSE VERSION: Let There Be Write

When God was handing out left brains, my twin sister and I were off finger painting and scribbling stories in the far reaches of the universe. When I arrived in my mother’s arms, little did I know that creativity would be one of the defining marks of my life. My artist mother taught me to see. My ancestors passed on a love of writing and words. I can hear my mother saying, “Look at that shade of purple in the clouds, dears,” while we hurtled down the freeway in our pea-green Ford Country Squire station wagon with the sweaty vinyl seats. Or, “Look how the color of the mountain ranges fades in the distance.” Or, “Can you see how the objects in that painting lead the eye to the point of interest?”

My great-great grandfather was the editor of the Times and Seasons and the Nauvoo Neighbor in Nauvoo, Illinois during the 1800’s. I inherited a love of funny stories somewhere along the way. It might come from my father’s namesake, Samuel W. Taylor, who wrote the short stories on which Disney’s movies, Flubber and The Absent Minded Professor were based.

Growing up, I was surrounded by stories. My grandparents moved out from Skokie, Illinois and talked about our ancestors while we sat around the impeccably appointed Sunday dinner table set with crystal, silver, and fresh flowers, always fresh flowers. Stories seeped into the air from the spirituals my mother sang with us girls in the kitchen, while our brothers shouted, “Stop singing!” from the living room. Many nights while Mount Olympus glowed in the setting sun, I heard Alistair Cooke describe that evening’s Masterpiece Theatahh movie while I warmed up after my bath in front of the fire. I thought the stories seemed incredibly boring at the time, but I remember many of the scenes and language to this day. The stories that meant the most to me, though, came from the pulpit of our Christian congregation, from the hymnal, from my Sunday School teachers, and from a school lunch delivery man who used to come over to our house with his British wife. She smelled deliciously of violets. From these sources, I heard stories from the Bible that opened my soul, filled my mind with wonder, and gave me chills.

The gully behind my home was filled with stories. My friends and I lived the life of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer on the island in the middle of the creek that looks so small to me now. I slept with a BB gun–in case of robbers–in the fort my brother and I built by cutting down our neighbor’s newly planted tree. I spent hours daydreaming on the worm-eaten Cottonwood logs around the fire pit, creating my own story about life’s meaning.

WRITING GETS BETTER WITH AGE. Maybe.

For those of you who know about writers, you likely know that storytelling usually comes naturally to those who have tough childhoods. I’ll just say ditto. When you live without feelings of safety or predictability, you back away from the world and learn the precious art of studying character motive, and who might do what, when, and why. Then you make your plan. Lots of us get an early start on our career that way. Not me. I’ve been at a slow simmer most of my life. A late bloomer. Filling my cup slowly.

Although I gobbled up Roald Dahl’s stories, Ramona the Pest stories, and White Fang in grammar school, my favorite books centered around strangely eclectic topics: languages, grammar, and secret codes. I taught myself to read Greek in the sixth grade, because I wanted to read the New Testament in its original language. Go figure. When my sixth grade teacher showed us how to diagram sentences, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

The two chapter books that riveted me back then were The Boxcar Children and My Side of the Mountain—both stories where the main characters are on their own and thriving. I felt they understood me and I understood them like no one in real life could. I fell in love with the biographies of Harriet Tubman and George Washington Carver. It was the first time I realized people could do really important things to help others. Harriet Tubman is still one of my heroes.

I knew I wanted to become a writer when my Honors English teacher, the late Shirley Collins said, “All of you moving on to AP English will do very well except for Karey Taylor . . .” I sat in shock for a minute not sure I had heard right. Then I felt every head turn to look at me at the same time. The universe stood still. When I recovered I felt small enough to sit on a nickel and swing my legs. Then Mrs. Collins said something that changed my life, “. . . because Karey has such a natural gift for creative writing.” I knew right then I could write, would write, and wanted to write. Weeks earlier, I had written a paper on William Faulkner’s, As I Lay Dying, which she’d had me stand and read to the class from beginning to end.

I majored in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing, studied British Literature at the University of Cambridge one summer, and studied poetry from poet laureate, Mark Strand, sure that I’d spend the rest of my life writing. Chaucer, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and Shakespeare were my friends. And let’s not forget Victor Hugo. Mon chèr Victor. But my first marriage brought any penchant for putting pen on paper to a screeching halt. I spent all my energy trying to nurture my amazingly active, non-nap taking, delightful children, and munch them with kisses while I was trying to survive and have our home be completely French-speaking. When I wrote, it was just to chronicle my life in my journal. Sometimes I wonder whether I should burn those suckers.

MOVING FORWARD

My days revolve around my family, my neighbors, good food, getting outside to walk or hike in the mountains with our dog, watching movies, and trying to figure out if there’s a way I can make a difference in global education for girls. Life is always full of ups and downs, but I just keep pressing forward, trusting that things are as they should be. Even if I don’t have a Masters or Ph.D., have a singing career, dance as much as I’d like, or paint on canvas–but that’s for another story.

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