Themes of social justice, life-changing experiences, resolution of conflict, redemption...building a vision for our lives: these are themes that interest Jill. To her stories she brings a rich background of undergraduate degrees in Psychology and English, graduate studies degrees in Philosophy and Special Education. What does she consider most helpful to her writing?  “Film School, hands down!" Her first historical fiction novel, set in Hawaii in 1884, won two awards for unpublished fiction—one award as YA, and the other in both YA and Adult categories. "Running from Moloka'i" portrays the deeply felt conflict between native Hawaiians and foreigners over the fate of those with leprosy who are exiled to Molokaki'. "Unless your heart is made of ice cubes," says one Amazon reviewer, "you will most likely enjoy this read." 

Hawaii was Jill's home for several years.  This prompted her interest in the cultural conflicts triggered by the treatment of those with leprosy; the topic is still emotional on the islands, fraught with pain even after generations.  On Oahu, Jill was a mediator for conflict resolution at the Neighborhood Justice Center in Honolulu.  She was invited by the Dept. of Health to conduct mediation training for the medical staff at Kalaupapa, the settlement where those with leprosy were sent during the 1800's and early 1900's. 

Now her focus is on Wales, Welsh history, and the setting, conflict and characters in her new novel, "Last Dream Standing."

Excerpt from "Last Dream Standing:" 

A new season, bringing with it the undercurrents of change, descended

on the valley. It was fall. Golden leaves blew across the platform of the

train station, flitting past luggage and carts and occasionally clinging to

someone’s hat. The platform grounded Beca as she stood in the breeze,

lifting a weary hand and giving an empty wave to the face in the third

window. The rugged face, belonging now to a stranger, leaned to catch

one last glimpse of her as the whistle blew and the giant metal machine,

the answer to everything from prayers to nightmares, began to carry

down its track handfuls of lives going somewhere else to do something

else. She couldn’t blame Stefan for not coming home to tell his father

goodbye.

It had been one thing to imagine Garth in Snowdonia, but quite

another to watch him give a final tug to the strap of his grandfather’s

trunk and know that those hands would not be touching her. Yet his

staying seemed like madness. She lowered her hand and thought of the

night Garth returned Stefan’s drawing of her, the gentleness they shared

as the glow from a candle trembled across the wall and their hands

dipped into the memory of each other. Funny, how hope can dress up

as a candle, how it can burn with a brightness that defies all reason,

then so thoroughly be extinguished.

The whistle blew and the train was soon in the distance, a breeze

bending its smoke until it wafted almost flat across the leaving fields.

That was what Stefan had called them, the leaving fields. When did she

take her first step away from Garth? She knew that one: the day Howie

was born. After that it was one long fish ladder. Then Aldyth’s sudden

gasp in the courtroom. It had been some time now, but it had stayed

with her, pushing her to look, but not letting her see. Aldyth had been

reticent to talk about it.

Still, she wished she could feel nothing now for this man whose life

was like a barge on the Thames, never seeming to have found its true

berth. She kept believing she could love him to wholeness.

She had started to say more before Garth took that last step up the

carriage and the doors slammed shut, but sometimes it can be better

to pause. At other times you’ve got to pounce. But it’s never better to

let things pile up like the black slag, ugly and leftover, that accumulates

below the collieries. And that’s what she had done. Every miner knows

the risk of those grainy black mountains. They can ruin the flow of a

river, kill the fragile fish who live there.

The door slammed behind Garth, he found an empty seat and

was watching Beca through a window of the carriage. The half

wave of her hand was downright unsettling, as if conveying something

that had escaped him until now. Something he should know. The kind

of thing that could have flipped everything upside down and made it

all new and fresh again; like the difference it might have made had he

stepped out from behind the hazelnut that night of Nos Calan Gaeaf.

Those were the moments that rattled around inside him. Banged into

each other.

The train whistle blew, and he heard the slamming of more doors.

Smoke began to haze over the carriage as passengers pulled out and lit

their cigarettes and pipes. Nobody had the gumption to light up a cigar.

The train inched away from the station, and the window slowly erased

the form of Beca standing on the platform. He was too proud to swivel

for one last glimpse of her; instead, he leaned to see the row of swallows

preening themselves along the roof of the station. He would miss the

valley birds, the way they floated down to sheep, landing elegantly on

flat, white backs.

someone’s hat. The platform grounded Beca as she stood in the breeze,

lifting a weary hand and giving an empty wave to the face in the third

window. The rugged face, belonging now to a stranger, leaned to catch

one last glimpse of her as the whistle blew and the giant metal machine,

the answer to everything from prayers to nightmares, began to carry

down its track handfuls of lives going somewhere else to do something

else. She couldn’t blame Stefan for not coming home to tell his father

goodbye.

It had been one thing to imagine Garth in Snowdonia, but quite

another to watch him give a final tug to the strap of his grandfather’s

trunk and know that those hands would not be touching her. Yet his

staying seemed like madness. She lowered her hand and thought of the

night Garth returned Stefan’s drawing of her, the gentleness they shared

as the glow from a candle trembled across the wall and their hands

dipped into the memory of each other. Funny, how hope can dress up

as a candle, how it can burn with a brightness that defies all reason,

then so thoroughly be extinguished.

The whistle blew and the train was soon in the distance, a breeze

bending its smoke until it wafted almost flat across the leaving fields.

That was what Stefan had called them, the leaving fields. When did she

take her first step away from Garth? She knew that one: the day Howie

was born. After that it was one long fish ladder. Then Aldyth’s sudden

gasp in the courtroom. It had been some time now, but it had stayed

with her, pushing her to look, but not letting her see. Aldyth had been

reticent to talk about it.

Still, she wished she could feel nothing now for this man whose life

was like a barge on the Thames, never seeming to have found its true

berth. She kept believing she could love him to wholeness.

She had started to say more before Garth took that last step up the

carriage and the doors slammed shut, but sometimes it can be better

to pause. At other times you’ve got to pounce. But it’s never better to

let things pile up like the black slag, ugly and leftover, that accumulates

below the collieries. And that’s what she had done. Every miner knows

the risk of those grainy black mountains. They can ruin the flow of a

river, kill the fragile fish who live there.

The door slammed behind Garth, he found an empty seat and

was watching Beca through a window of the carriage. The half

wave of her hand was downright unsettling, as if conveying something

that had escaped him until now. Something he should know. The kind

of thing that could have flipped everything upside down and made it

all new and fresh again; like the difference it might have made had he

stepped out from behind the hazelnut that night of Nos Calan Gaeaf.

Those were the moments that rattled around inside him. Banged into

each other.

The train whistle blew, and he heard the slamming of more doors.

Smoke began to haze over the carriage as passengers pulled out and lit

their cigarettes and pipes. Nobody had the gumption to light up a cigar.

The train inched away from the station, and the window slowly erased

the form of Beca standing on the platform. He was too proud to swivel

for one last glimpse of her; instead, he leaned to see the row of swallows

preening themselves along the roof of the station. He would miss the

valley birds, the way they floated down to sheep, landing elegantly on

flat, white backs.

  Fun facts about the author:

1.      She enjoys building streams and ponds. 

2.      She loves pickleball.

3.      As a child, she once offered to make a divine trade:  God could have her parents…in exchange for a horse (preferably Rastus, pastured at the Elkhorn Lodge in Estes Park, CO where she grew up.  (Spoiler:  it probably will not work for you, either.)