About M.M. Harden
When I was five, I used juicy leaves from a jade plant to write sh—t on the side of a neighbor’s house. Sh—t was my mother’s favorite word—she said it when mad, when happy, and when surprised. Somehow, I managed to spell it correctly. Few were impressed with my early writing skills, and after a tongue-lashing from my neighbor, I scrubbed it off with a soapy brush. Not long after, I kissed a neighbor boy on the roof of our backyard shed, where I giggled so hard I tumbled into the shrubs below. My mother said sh—t twice then. One for the bones I didn’t break and the other for the flattened camellia bush. I made it as far as Davis Junior High before I kissed another boy, polishing my skills in a hedonistic game of spin the bottle. Seventh grade boys put to shame kindergarten boys in the kissing department, and I wrote long sweeping passages about it in my journal. My mother said sh—t again when she read it and grounded me for a week. I decided kissing was bad. I stop writing in my journal. I started saying sh—t.
Somewhere along the way, I picked up kissing and writing again. I dove into mysteries, falling in love with murder and mayhem and mischief. And lessons from childhood are never far away, especially since I still say sh—t.
I began hanging out with cops, taking community law enforcement classes, going to the shooting range, doing police ride alongs, and eating donuts. Recently, I became a private investigator, sleuthing my way through the often rain-soaked streets of Seattle.
I love to travel but hate to fly, a residual fear from a midair engine explosion when I was a teen. I try to eat well but never stop dreaming of a world where Raspberry Zingers and Cheesy Gordita Crunches are health food. If ever shipwrecked on a deserted island, I could happily survive on peanut butter and red wine.
I’m crazy about yoga and hiking and adventure movies, not necessarily in that order. I listen to Harry Potter every night at bedtime; Jim Dale’s voice my sleep aid of choice. When I’m 96, I might stop writing, kissing, and saying sh—t—maybe.
Banner credit: Dave Morrison Photography