About H.R. Cling

About H.R. Cling

H.R. Cling (or Heather among friends, and since you're reading this, I declare us friends) was born in Iowa (Writer's Workshop, yay!), went to Taylor University and got a degree in nothing related to writing whatsoever (social work and political science if you're curious), got married and moved to Nashville (or NashVegas as we like to call it), and then somehow ended up in Wisconsin (Go, Pack, Go!).

Phew. That was quite the disaster of a sentence.

She has three daughters because God decided boys would be a terrible idea. This despite the fact that she can't braid hair. They have three dogs named Mr. Tumnus, Nutmeg, and Frodo. (Their cavachon Dr. Watson died last year, RIP.)

Heather has been writing stories since she could, well, write. (The classic "Sugar Plum Chicken" is a particular family favorite.) Her writing went professional in 2007 when she published her first website for new parents. In fact, she's still the Chief Encouragement Officer over at The Mighty Moms Club (under the nom de plume, Heather Taylor). If you've got kids under 6, you should definitely pop over and give it a read-through.

Things Heather Loves...

These are in no particular order, because she's too lazy to sit down and quantify them.

  1. Her husband Cameron
  2. Her girls: Lauren, Elena, and Bella
  3. The Packers (a Wisconsin requirement)
  4. Coffee (of course, it's an author's stereotype)
  5. Thinking about fantastical ways to delight and surprise readers.

Things Heather Hates...

  1. The beach (Not a fan of water. Or sand. Or being hot. Or being half naked in public.)
  2. Backtracking of any kind. It's inefficient.
  3. Lying liars who lie
  4. Spiders

This page is getting a bit long, so I'll end it here. Besides, I'm tired of writing about myself in the third-person.

You, my reading friend, are much more important than me. I may write the stories, but you are the one who take the time to read them. You are the one that shares them with your friends and family. Without you, I'm writing to ghosts and they aren't much fun. (It's all the groaning. It grates.)

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