Alexandra Von Burg

I have been an artist all my life, drawing and telling stories both visually and on paper. I never found a reason to banish my imagination for a practical inner monologue. The art of make-believe has never left me.

The first thirty-five years of my adult life were dedicated to the visual arts. I went to college and then grad school for art on the east coast. I majored in printmaking because I was better at drawing than painting. Having kids made getting to the print studio difficult, so I took up creating with fabric, which was only satisfying for a short time. Today I mix drawing my images directly onto fabric with quilting which satisfies my interest in conquering a tool to create something beautiful. I think it’s a leftover habit from printmaking.

My return to writing was born out of an aversion to idleness. I had a sick parent, and I was traveling frequently and then sitting for hours next to a bed. I would knit and tell myself stories to pass the time between advocating for the patient and listening to doctors. At night I would write in a notebook. Long hand. Not expecting anyone to read my fantasy romance. By the time the pandemic hit, I had three hundred pages typed into a Word document, and my husband, the practical genius, told me that self publishing was easy these days. Technology. Go figure. Thus, my first trilogy was finished and published.

I write what I like to read. Steamy fantasy and syfy romance, and my visual art has followed in those same barefoot and naked steps. Why? Because the world is too full of hate and aggression. I want a place to escape to. A world where anything is possible, including me still fitting into a size ten. Someone else can write romances about real people who live in real places and have real jobs. My muse lives in the clouds. On another planet. In another dimension. Full of sexy creatures.