Maura Conlon-McIvor

When I was a starry-eyed 13-year-old, I confided to my older brother, Michael, that I wanted to write a book about love, for the entire world to read. Already I was scribbling quixotic poetry in my journal, philosophizing into my tape recorder, and feeling the world could use a story that sparked the heart, a tale about growing up in a particular family named Conlon, about excavating the important secrets we keep buried undercover.

I began sketching FBI Girl around the time my father proudly gave me all his correspondence received from bureau chief J. Edgar Hoover. Dad was a special agent for 27 years in the Los Angeles area. And that's about all we knew growing up. When I sat down and read his stash of letters, I found scribbled all over them his wry observations about being in the FBI, or his reflections about life in general. This gift was typical of what he and I had shared all our lives -- communication wrapped in code. It was always my job to read between the lines and uncover the real meaning. Perhaps my father was like many of our fathers in that respect.

I've had the good fortune to live in various parts of the country, including such fine places as southern California, Iowa City, Berkeley, New York City, Winston-Salem, Syracuse, and the Pacific Northwest. Given that my father was a family man, he would have preferred if I'd stayed in the neighborhood. But if I had, he'd have missed the chance to say, "Hold on. I'll get your mother" when he spotted me, which he always did, at the front doorstep, suitcase in hand, home again.

I hope you enjoy FBI Girl: How I Learned to Crack My Father's Code.

All best,

Maura Conlon-McIvor