Julia Indigo (@juliaindigo) was a mild-mannered classical musician (well, perhaps not so mild-mannered, but it makes a better story), until the wee hours of the morning of February 19th, 2011, when the succubus that is Steven woke her with a lick and a promise. Actually, no promise, just a lick, followed by a kiss that would have brought her to her knees if she hadn’t been lying down already, and further unmentionable seductions.
Just when things were getting really interesting, if you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do, he began to dissolve, with one last ringing command: Write. My. Story. NOW!
Breathing hard, Julia tried to make some sense of what had just happened, to no avail, “What was that thing, and why does it think that I’m a writer?” Hours of confusion followed, and as there was no more sleep to be had, she rose at seven a.m., took a much-needed shower, found a glass of o.j. and her laptop, and began to write. Several cups of coffee later, a writer was born.
Drawing on her history as a classical musician, energy healer, acupuncturist, sometime-astrologer and tarot reader, Julia writes with white-hot intensity, at least until she can’t any longer. Then she pretends that her life is as it has always been, unchained from the computer, going to work, grabbing her double-tall-half-caf-latte at Starbucks in the interim, and pretending that all this didn’t happen. Until, of course, she has to write again. Lather/rinse/repeat.
Having lived in Texas all her life, Julia is that rarest of birds: an actual gol-darned Native Austinite; but one who wishes to be a Sydney Sider, longing for the beach at Coogee.