When Thanksgiving is over, I sink into a deep depression.
All the painful memories of the past wiggle into my brain and I am one miserable allig--woman. Please bear with me. I'm sharing with you the sad story of my birth and formative years. They did have a great deal to do with my urge to write The Bayou Books.

COMEDY OF ERRORS

My mother told me I was hatched from an alligator egg she found when a swan got tired of sitting on it. Mother took that big old egg home, popped it inside a crocheted tea cozy, then put it in a cardboard box by the fire. The family cat took over egg-sitting duties and eventually the shell cracked (the noise was ear-splitting) and out came a baby alligator dripping slime. The cat got a bit carried away with clean-up duties and licked every scale off that critter, then, when the cat saw how ugly the baby was, she wouldn't feed it. So my Mother stepped in with some milk and other human foodstuff and the result was . . . Me!

My childhood in England was a mess of turmoil. You wouldn't believe how long it took me to find myself and how much I suffered on the journey. Children can be so cruel, especially if they get to pick on someone who’s a bit different. They taunted me and called me Jaws—among other things. You should have heard the tacky references to my tail.

But all that changed after the plastic surgery. I was turned into a swan, maybe because it was a swan who almost brought me into the world.

Well, I never felt really at home in England. I couldn't get past thinking my Mother put up with me out of duty and I knew I needed to get to wherever I ought to be. I knew that couldn't be in that cold seaside town, but the more places I visited, the more places I found where I didn't fit in—until I took a plane to Western Australia and got diverted to Baton Rouge.

Did you know that the duck billed platypus is native to Western Australia? It is. Platypus babies are called puggles—isn't that sweet? I'd decided to take a look and see if these folks were my long lost relatives because I have this spike on one of my ankles and if you get scratched by it, you may die. The platypus has spikes like mine, but my plane being diverted was a real blessing in the end. I arrived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and I was home. I mean those swamps called to me—sirens’ songs. I just followed my twitching nose and slipped into that thick, green, snake-filled warm water and knew I was finally where I was meant to be.

You wouldn't believe the gossip that gets tossed around among the water hyacinth. Some Louisiana folks think they can keep secrets—that makes me laugh. You'd think by now they'd all know how at night, the cottonmouths hide in their walls and under their floors, and disguise themselves as bathmats. Remember making those mats out of crocheted tubes that you wound around and around—bit like a big, swirled candy sucker?

I could tell you things that would make you molt (and I do), but you've got a right to know all about how I came to write stories like A MARKED MAN, A GRAVE MISTAKE, NOW YOU SEE HIM and BODY OF EVIDENCE—The Bayou Books. Cottonmouths! They were the reason. They slithered back to the swamp and kept us alligators up all night telling us what went on in little towns along the bayou and in the houses, taverns, sheriffs’ offices, dance halls, hotels, cafes, doctors’ offices, bookshops, lawyers’ offices and rectories in those towns. All I had to do was keep my computer dry and the rest is history.

As always, I thank my readers for their support. I'm crazy about Louisiana—of course I am! The parts of the state I write about are sultry and mysterious, and so are the folks I want you to care about.

--Stella