Hiya! I’m A. L. Lorensen.

Writer, reader, dreamer, singer, doodler, piano-er, violin-er, Netflixer, mozz-stick eater, social worker, hammocker, landscaper, occasional launderer and dishwasher, and… uhh… someone that ran out of other things that end with “-er”

I graduated with a Bachelors of Science degree from Utah State University May of 2019. I got married January of 2020, and we’ve made our home at the base of the beautiful mountains that encase Cache Valley, Utah with our cat, Muse (A. K. A. Maow-Maow, Kitten, Butt-head, Baby, or Bed-Shark). Despite the fact that I hate the cold and the snow, and Cache Valley winters last nearly six months out of the year, I still love it here. I’m not sure I could have found a better place for myself at this time in my life, even if I tried.

I’ve been writing ever since I can remember, and my goal in life is to never run out of stories to tell.

The Beginning

When I say I’ve been writing ever since I can remember, I’m not exaggerating (don’t take that as the norm, though. I’m a writer. Exaggerating and embellishing is what we do). One of my earliest memories is my dad dusting off an old, off-white box of a computer that probably weighed at least double of five-year-old me, and teaching me how to use Word and Paint.

My first-ever book came out of that computer. I called it “Mary’s Walk” – a real nail-biter with a fantastic twist ending – about a cat (named Mary) that went for a walk and saw baby birds, a rainbow, and *GASP* her long-lost sister! It was five pages long, with about a sentence per page. I spent all day on it, and couldn’t wait to show my dad. He helped me figure out how to illustrate it with Paint, and then we printed it to show to friends and family. We even splurged and printed it with colored ink. I couldn’t have been prouder, and I’m not sure my dad could have, either. I’m almost certain he still has that first story tucked away somewhere in his computer.

The Middle

After my debut title, and it’s raging success with my loyal band of two followers, I decided I owed it to them to hone my craft by exploring other genres (at the ripe-old age of six, mind you). Over the next several years, I tried my hand at screenwriting (the fact that I could change the font colors for every character was what drew me in), poetry, dramas, Hardy Boys fanfiction… I could go on forever. The one that always seemed to hold my attention the longest, though, was fantasy.

I did most of my growing up in Puyallup, Washington, where I had a giant, grassy yard, and a next-door best-friend that loved to play and imagine just as much as I did. We ran around for hours, playing queens and empresses and fairies and monsters and everything in between in our imaginary worlds. I loved it. Many of our games ended up being the basis for my stories. I even got one up to a whole eleven pages. And then my dad introduced me to paragraph and dialogue breaks, and it suddenly jumped to twenty!

I was eleven when we moved from Puyallup to Snowflake, Arizona. Other than being in a different location and making new friends, not much changed for me. I continued to write, as well as keep up with the million other things an eleven-year-old girl is inevitably involved with. School, music, art, sports, plays. I was about as care free as I could possibly be.

And then my mom got sick.

At twelve-years-old, writing suddenly became a necessity more than just a hobby. I had so many emotions swirling through my head and heart that I had no idea how to deal with or articulate. There is something truly cathartic about giving your thoughts the extra time to flow down your arms and fingers onto a page, rather than a direct route through your mouth. It gives you time to process and internalize what your truth really is. At least that’s what I’ve found for myself. I had amazing support systems surrounding me, ready to jump and listen at a moment’s notice if I needed them – and I needed them often – but there was something different about writing. I’m not sure I have the skill to describe it right now, but someday I might.

I started my first serious book during this time. A story completely my own. I poured my hurt and worry and need for some magic and light into it. I finished it when I was fourteen. All three-hundred-and-twenty-six pages of it. Almost immediately after, I started it over again, and haven’t stopped since. Hopefully by the end of this year it will be done done. Eleven years should be plenty of time to finish at least something of note, right?

I continued to write all through high school. Essays were of the devil, but any creative writing assignments were my bread and butter. My sophomore year English teacher had to specifically limit how many pages I could turn in for vocab assignments. I pushed my manuscript to anyone that would read it, out of both a desire to improve as well as a desperate need for some sort of validation. Luckily, I had tolerant friends, family, and mentors. They gave me feedback. I got better.

My college writing experience followed the same vein. I took classes, got feedback, found supportive nerd-friends like me, and wrote a spite-story that ended up being published. And then had a second published. They weren’t published with any sort of big agency, but my confidence in my writing ability soared. I still have a lot to learn, but I’m trying to be better every day.

The End (For Now)

And now, here I am, releasing my debut novel later in 2022 with plans for more to follow, and here you are, with a little more insight into who I am and where I came from. I hope we’ll continue to see more from each other.

Happy reading!

-A. L.