As a child in Bethesda, Maryland, Martha Sears West used to lie in a pile of leaves with pencil and paper, composing poems of profound incomprehensibleness. She was so successful that she couldn’t even understand them herself. She now prefers crafting rhymes that she can understand, and that make others smile. She hopes the occasional reader will chortle, “Aha!” — possibly out loud, and in a library.
Martha and her husband Steve, as newlyweds, lived in a sheep wagon in the Idaho wilderness; while he fought fires for the Forest Service, she ran the radio to the lookouts and smoke jumpers. Since then, Steve has cheered her on in many endeavors, including that of being a full-time mother, while she was earning a B.A. in linguistics from the University of Maryland.
The author can be found hard at play with pencil and paper late into the night. Her words want to write themselves even after she puts them to bed with a glass of warm milk.