Why do you want to know about me? Because knowing who I am can help you discover if I’m the right agent for you. If you’re here, you’re doing your research, so congrats. I am about building relationships: agent-author, agent-publisher, author-publisher. And I am a writer, too, so I understand the investment of time and heart it takes to follow this path.
Here’s a fun fact: I was born and raised in New Jersey.We’re a nicer lot than you might think. Favorite line from a song about New Jersey, by John Gorka: I’m from New Jersey, I don’t expect too much, if the world ended today, I would adjust. Good stuff. I actually expect a lot when it comes to the quality of writing, but I am otherwise a very adaptable person. I also really love football.
I have a BA in Anthropology from American University (1997) and an MA in Writing from Johns Hopkins University (2012).
I am a refugee from another career. Before turning to writing and editing in 2010, and more recently, author representation, I was an archaeologist for thirteen years. People always ask me, “What was the most interesting thing you’ve ever found?” Easy: pottery in Japan, an infant burial in Hawaii, and a buffalo jump in Wyoming.The day-to-day of my job over those years was a whole lot more pedestrian than that, involving many fruitless days, awful motels, and endless paperwork, but it was a career I’m glad I had and it was the right time in my life to have it. It also afforded me the opportunity to do a great deal of traveling, which is something I love to do.
I think my own writing has been influenced by this varied, somewhat nomadic past. In my stories, I like place to be a character itself, and I try to write characters that are a product of their environment. Very little of my writing is about me, but like many writers, a bit of my own personal experience finds its way into my writing. That’s my version of “write what you know.”
I have recently finished a collection of short stories titled Lukewarm People, and I am working on a novel (or two). I am also a painter (the image in the slider titled Editorial Services is one of mine). I live in Baltimore, MD with my husband, Greg Williamson, who’s a poet, and our blue-eyed border collie, Arlo. He doesn’t write, but he reads a lot.
Also see Interests for what to submit.
Peacock Journal, May 2017
It was barely 1991 and we both had Jersey hair, wore Benetton and Final Net. We shined like spinnerbaits. We were in your Cessna, Charlie November 172. It was white and pinstriped blue. You pulled the chocks, it was flight-checked and cleared, and soon we were far above the piedmont’s cheeky hills. Amid the trills and thumps of open flaps, downing gears and attitudes, I clutched the seat beneath me, making promises to God…
Blackbird, Spring 2014 Vol. 13 No. 1
It was a Monday, late morning, when Carl drove up to Rosa Bell’s trailer with the sole intention of removing her, by force if necessary, to the Whitman Home down in the valley. The trees were whipping themselves in the rain that day, flapping like wet dogs, turning the creek to Fall. People like to say a good rain strips everything clean, but that’s not true in the hollow. Rain turns everything to mildew and stacks leaves up into carports and under your porch. And Stoney Creek always floods. Rosa Bell’s part of the hollow is low ground, and it’s thick with sycamores—fat, white-barked peelers that shake themselves over the water. Their canopies slump like drunk runaways, and they’re sick with rootless dreams…
Williamson’s writing cuts deep into the rich, half-mythic landscape, and her evocative, winding cadence mimics the rush of the central creek, creating a story charged with cleansing, baptismal power. The slyly comic turns of the story only heighten the feelings of loss and helplessness that define her characters, and she never lets us lose sight of their stumbling, earnest humanity. –Introductions Reading Loop, Blackbird
- Comments about writing “Stoney Creek” in Tracking the Muse, Blackbird
Word Riot, February, 15, 2015
I was born on the back of Carroll McLean’s buckboard the night we stopped at King’s Bluff overlooking the ford at Red Creek. The coyotes were out and Mom swore it was their silly, prowling paeans that cursed my birth and ushered me in a nuisance. But Mom came from places where they believed in that kind of thing: curses, and signs and superstitions. She said if I wasn’t in such a hurry to dive into the world that night above the ford we would have made it all the way to California for sure…
“The Difficulties of Time Travel”
Finalist in Glimmer Train’s Fiction Open, September of 2012.
…Lillian liked to remind me of my age. She got it. She saw it creeping up after being in that house all those years still pissed at me over every little thing: Dolly Parton, the skin I pick under my ears, the rooted-up boxwoods I got at the dump that she poured vinegar all over so they’d die quickly. She said the house looks like old people live in it, and the smell of the fair had grown stale in August.
Old people do live here. That’s a fact growing in my nostrils. In my hands that look like burled wood and root rot. I’m all scale and cellophane now—nothing I can change, trick mirrors or not…
“Twitter” a villanelle
The Waterhouse Review, January 2013
Forthcoming in Measure Press, Summer 2018