Angela Hallstrom is the oldest child of a police detective and a piano teacher. As a result, she rarely lies (people will see right through her!) and can play the complete score from Saturday’s Warrior. Yes, even “Zero Population.” As a child, she often fantasized that Laura Ingalls Wilder could be zapped into the future so she could introduce her to all the cool new inventions of the late 20th century, like blue mascara and microwavable hot dogs with cheese inside. She also spent a great deal of time reading adolescent fiction about teenagers with terminal diseases, with _Thirteen is Too Young To Die_ topping her list of all time favorites. In the fifth grade, she misspelled “emotional” in the school-wide spelling bee and, ever since, has relied heavily on copy editors. She lives in South Jordan, Utah, with her husband (to whom she never lies because he can see right through her) and four children (who’ve never, to this day, eaten a microwavable hot dog with cheese inside). Although she has an MFA in fiction and has published some short stories and a novel and teaches at BYU, in the most recent issue of Irreantum an author used the word “liminal,” and she had to look it up. In an attempt to be taken more seriously, she’s trying to wean herself from the overuse of smiley face emoticons in her electronic correspondence.
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