I was born with writing blood. I’ve been writing as long as I can remember. In my head writing a lot. Then writing on paper, or sandy beaches, or rocks, or trees. Sometimes writing to practice different styles of how words appear on a page, or to try to mimic my parents handwriting (not necessarily for surreptitious means), and other times writing for the sake of journaling or creative writing.
I come from a family who qualify as sincere lovers of writing. My dad has written incredibly informative global economic and political science minded books, articles, collegiate course outlines. My grandfather was a dazzling Yale Drama School graduate, who wrote theatrical plays, directed at the famous Grand Ole Opry, and penned film scripts that never quite made it to production. My aunt has been in publishing for decades. My mom knows her way around a sentence that always caused me to mentally list the many words I didn’t know when she spoke, likewise my dad, so I could source them later. As well, my dad has kept a library of books at his university office and at home. Both my parents have a rhythm with language that begets my love affair with words.
Also, there’s an enormous list of talented friends and colleagues I know who write. Some skirting the behind the scenes motions of writing. Some I’ve met in writing workshops, conventions, or events big and small. Some on their way to publishing their first title. Some with an array of titles under their belt. Some accomplished and well known. Some budding and bright. Some, like me, a little polka dot along that spectrum somewhere.
The goal for me is simply to keep writing. It’s like I’ve involved everyone in my dream- to have a view into my inner dialogue. It’s both frightening and exhilarating. But it is technically no matter to me if or how you engage with me. I merely hope not to fail myself and drop away. I wholly aim to present myself over and again. If we build a connection, well that is grandiose and full of gratitude. If we pass one another but like stars adrift in a distant galaxy, on the same timing, but never fully meeting, I still appreciate the ability to exist here.
And as I unfold these elements of me to you, to this internet world, I look forward to delving into my writing archives from time to time to share historic treats, in addition to fresh content. I hope y’all enjoy the ride!
My parting gift today is a taste of poetry from my past, inspired by a darling writer, friend and supporter, who popped in to say hello to me today. Of course, his timing was impeccable, as I was already typing this at the time, and being that he was the muse for the moment in time it references.
Maybe it is in the water (circa 11.15.2013)
I rolled softly between the sheets again
Time stamped decadence
Outside a winter innocence
Instead my head caught in the heated swirl
You go round inside me so gently
I stare longingly through the wall of mirrors
He did it again, as always
Baring my soul, without lifting but a finger
Casting shadows strewn between a starry night
Coloring my sighs with smiles
Once more I play it cool
Drowning my happiness in the honesty
I cannot fall in love
Only because he already took that from me
He fits me like a glove
If your rotation changes
Know pieces of me go with it
Every word a string upon my heart
And just like that
Fate picks up the pace
Lacing the spaces until with crimson cheer
Moonlight tracing a path of tears
Sunshine worthy roll by my years
Drink up my love
You are dear to me