Jayme Whitfield grew up in the wilds of Florida, a region where epic tales from the past collide with the sun-drenched reality of the present. Immersed in stories of sunken treasures, rum runners, cowboys and Indians, juke-joints and promiscuous women, the small town where she lives has evolved into a duality of gang violence and oil-soaked tourists, drugs and the natural beauty of paradise. She wouldn’t trade it for the world, even if she does have to dodge the occasional hurricane.
Jayme spends an unseemly amount of time excavating the culture, traditions and history of her ancestors, a path that has uncovered a tendency for women who quite happily break the rules of convention, men who aren’t afraid to follow their dreams and just the right touch of magic and myth provided by their Carpathian beginnings.
When she’s not digging through the stacks of historic documents at the local library or haunting the coffee shops looking for the best brew and free WiFi, you’ll often find Jayme traipsing through a marsh with her husband and children in tow, a camera slung over her shoulder. She also enjoys watching cheesy science fiction movies, quoting Douglas Adams, theoretical physics and loom knitting.
At home, she loves to relax with a good book, but more often than not the stories are drowned out by a chorus of characters in her own head; a menagerie of voices waiting for their tale to be told. After trying to ignore those voices for years as she wrote for trade magazines and a local paper, Jayme finally gave in and turned to the spicier side of storytelling.