Clara Bennett grew up in the kind of town where the hardware store knew your name and the rink smelled like popcorn every Friday night. She writes cozy literary fiction about ordinary people finding their footing in small communities — the kitchen rituals, the borrowed keys, the slow accumulation of belonging.
When she is not writing, Clara can be found haunting used record shops, making unnecessarily elaborate mixtapes, and drinking tea that has steeped about four minutes too long.
