About The Author

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Christine M. Whitehead

I’m a lawyer who writes in the evening and on weekends, or, if you prefer, I’m a writer who practices law during the day. My books are jammed with my hobbies and interests. While the main characters are not “me,” they are parts of me. My first book was about a female sniper, and I was asked —a lot!—how I knew so much about disposing of evidence and disguises. I did do research, but I also made up “stuff,” as all novelists do.

My main character is usually a lawyer. I love animals, particularly dogs and horses, so you’ll find a few of those in my books. I love NYC, so often, the setting of much action in NYC. Writing is a great escape because you can create worlds and outcomes the way you want fern to be. And being optimists, I always have a happy ending. I love my characters way more than you should love fictional people.

Tell Me When It Hurts was my first novel, and I introduced to readers the mysterious recluse, Archer Loh. My next book, De Rnge ofPlum Blossoms, won a writing contest hosted by Kindle’s Private Press and was published by Kindle privately. The protagonist in 27ie Rage of Plum Blossoms is a quirky woman named Quinn Jones who must find out what drove her husband to his death. While being told it was suicide, Quinn distrusts that pronouncement and stalks the back streets of Chinatown, haunted by the need to know what happened that day and why.

Hemingway’s Datcghter, my most recent novel, was a tnie labor of love. I’ve been an amateur sNdent of Ernest Hemingway for over 30 years and have an intense interest in understanding how Hemingway, who lived so robustly and had such fame and talent, could kill himself. He had four wives and three sons but always hoped to have a daughter but never did. The concept of inventing a daughter who might ded with him differently than his sons or wives did and who might have softened some of his harsh edges intrigued me. That was the beginning concept of ifemingwpy’s Daughter.

I get my best ideas in the barn as I groom my horse, Nifty. The dogs keep a careful distance as I lift a hoof, scrape it out, and then move on to the next one. The repetition soothes me. Ideas begin to bounce around in my head. I begin to dream about women like me, women on the edge, res3ess women who still want to trust that there is love out there, fat being sentimental is not contemptible, and that good men are not so hard to find if you keep slogging along, seeking a melody to fit your words. So that’s who and what I wite about restless women searching. Please slog along with me.

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