Kris Gordon, 26, is an avid reader, a struggling writer, and a slight agoraphobe.

She was born in Omaha, Nebraska, where she currently resides. She is of Mexican/German descent, loves cheap American beer, and has been to Finland.

Kris grew up with a deep love of reading and writing, instilled in her by her parents. After reading her first Stephen King novel (IT) at age 9 (which she stole from her mother's bookcase), she knew there was only one thing that she absolutely had to do in her life: Write.

Though Ms. Gordon has yet to see her writing published, she still entertains the idea that someday, her words and thoughts might find an audience. She hopes to captivate, touch, and perhaps change people with her writing. And it wouldn't kill her if she made some money doing it.

Kristina has several projects in the works, as far as novels go, though it's quite possible none of them will ever be read by anyone but close friends.

One certainty about Kris is that without the love and support of her friends and family, she wouldn't be writing today. All her written works are dedicated in great part to her father Thomas Gordon, her mother Antonia Grace, and her best friend, Dylan Micheal. Without them, nothing would have been possible.

For more about Kristina Gordon, read her articles here on Helium, and at FlatManCrooked.com, under her pen name Victoria Flair. Or send her a message via Helium. She's actually quite funny and personable. Or so her friends say.

My passion is ...

My family. And my writing.

My childhood ambition ...

To be an author.

My favorite memory ...

My father and I at the park late at night, just talking about life.

Why I write ...

Because I love it, and feel I have to.

My first job ...

Outbound telemarketing for Chase Manhattan.

My inspiration ...

My life, my family, and my friends all inspire me.

Creative Writing > Memoirs Good-bye: True gardening stories relating to love, life and gardening

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I hated the garden.

My father had planted and worked it in our backyard for years, from about the time I was born. Towers of tomato vines formed shadowed hallways, twisting themselves sinuously around the metal fencing that supported them. Every few feet hundreds of carrots, onions and horseradish sprouted in ordered lines. He even grew the near toxic hot banana peppers for a short time. My brother had helped him harvest them once, then had unwittingly wiped his eye, giving himself a pretty serious burn. My father immediately ripped the peppers out.

Every Spring for as long as ...

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