I have always loved to write. When I was ten years old, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was often “a novelist”. Or, on occasion, “the first female President!”. My ambitions have changed over time, but my vehicle for expression has always been words, and I harbor a deep appreciation for the skillful use of them.
There’s a box sitting about twelve feet from me as I write this. This box contains every journal and/or diary I’ve written in since I was four. It’s really big, and heavy, and given how often I move, it’s been a bit of a physical burden at times. It serves as a reminder of my love affair with these combinations of vowels and consonants, metaphors, hyperbole – and I treasure it.
That same blog-site also hosts my old poetry over many loves, losses and ideals.
I love to make words string together in a reasonably sensical fashion. I love to have those words read and understood, appreciated and commented upon.
This is my favorite thing in the world, after snuggling my birds, taking off in an airplane, and great sex. So I hope you enjoy. If you don’t, it’s okay. It’s for me.